


Friendly Concern

by KaerWrites



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst mixed with humor, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaerWrites/pseuds/KaerWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's begun to concern Hawke's friends that, even after three years, the mage is still hung up on Fenris. The only question is whether a little intervention will give him the push he finally needs - or only cause him to dig his heels in deeper. Hawke is insistent he will wait as long as it takes. </p><p>This is an attempt at an expansion on some in-game events - exploration of personal headcanons and the like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited the summary in the hopes of added clarity.

At this hour, the Hanged Man habitually reached a level of quiet that was otherwise unheard of in the popular, yet still somewhat unsavory, establishment. An hour yet before official close, most of the rooms had been let, their inhabitants now peaceably sleeping off the effects of the poor quality ale that bore a strong resemblance to stale horse piss _if you were lucky_. Even the weathered ceiling beams above indulged in a series of tired creaks and moans as the vermin who inhabited the attic settled themselves down from their own nightly carnival.

Hawke sat at his usual table with Varric, both men chuckling yet neither certain just what it was they found so humorous. They were the last remaining this night, and about an hour and a half ago the tired barmaid on duty had ceased any illusion of subtlety in regards to her desire to see them gone, Champion or no. The looks she gave them as she scraped a fresh layer of straw across the floor and paused to crack her aching back had reached impressive levels of venom. “Arse-licking-shit-stain-nug-humpers,” she could be heard to chant when she reluctantly came over to top off their mugs.

“All right, Hawke,” Varric said, using his thumb to swipe tears of mirth from his eyes. “Level with me.”

“Level with you?”

“Judging by the abysmal state of my tab, I don’t think I’d be wrong to assume I’ve got you plastered enough to earn a little bit of honesty tonight.”

Hawke chuckled and leaned back – a bit unsteadily – in his chair. He crossed arms that were far more muscular than any sane mage had a right to as he glanced through the window slats to the darkness outside. A thin line of pink had begun to pierce the horizon. “I do believe ‘tonight’ has become ‘tomorrow’,” he pointed out, his voice slow and thick, heavy with drink and amusement. “And I’m not quite sure how to take the fact you think you need to get me liquored up to earn honesty from me. Really, I’m injured.”

“Heartbroken, I’m sure,” Varric grimaced. He took a drink, considered his words, then offered a humorless smile. “Did I say honesty? Maybe I meant I want to tell you something you aren’t going to like to hear and I was hoping to get it out without having my ass set on fire. I get those two mixed up.”

“That’s not fair.” Leopold Hawke had once been a hard man. Six, seven years ago, the dwarf’s concerns would have been valid. But he liked to think he had grown in the time since their first meeting – and if the old self showed his hand from time to time, it at the very least had become the rare exception, rather than the rule. “You can tell me – tell me anything.”

“Don’t go all sappy on me.”

“Should I start singing romantic ballads?” Hawke offered, reaching for his mug.

“Maker – remind me not to let you at the hard stuff again.” Varric finished off his drink with one deep pull for bravery, then set it aside and waited a beat, watching his friend carefully. “Hawke. You need to get laid.”

Mid-sip, the mage choked on his ale, then spit it out, an impressive amber spray arching across the fresh straw in a manner that made the barmaid throw her hands in the air and disappear into the kitchens in disgust. Varric waited as Hawke coughed and heaved and otherwise attempted to expel the foul brew from his lungs. When at last the mage turned a furious amber eye on him, Varric merely folded his hands atop the table and smiled.

“Well. That was dramatic.”

“You – I didn’t – why - ?” in that moment Hawke bore a remarkable resemblance to a soaked cat – spitting, shoulders hunched, eyes aflame. If he hadn’t had so much to drink he probably would have had better presence of mind than to go quite so red in the face.

“I did say you weren’t going to like it.”

“You little bastard.”

Varric pretended to examine his nails. “It’s no secret, Hawke. We all know it’s been three years since you’ve gotten any,” he said bluntly. “And you’re a virile man – one who’s under a lot of pressure. You need to take care of yourself, for all our sakes. Make sure your needs are met. Heh, can you imagine the outcry: Champion of Kirkwall Dies from Violent Explosion of Blue Balls.”

“Why Varric,” he said, teeth clenched. “I had no clue you cared so much about the state of my balls.”

The dwarf didn’t miss a beat. “You couldn’t handle me,” he stated. “Look – I’m just saying a trip to the Rose _probably_ wouldn’t kill you. Maker knows you’ve got the coin for it now. No one’s asking you to settle down and get married – I just wanted to point out that a little stress relief might not be remiss.”

“I don’t see you going down there.”

“I’m not the all-powerful Champion. And unlike you, I keep my personal business personal. You don’t know what I do or don’t do.”

“I don’t even know how everyone found out about that night!”

“Well…we aren’t _blind_ , Hawke.” The dwarf couldn’t have stopped a chuckle if he’d tried. Not that he tried.

Hawke grunted, looking away with a scowl as he scraped both hands angrily through his hair. “Did you two plan this?” he demanded at last.

Varric stared at him a moment. “Me and…the Elf?” he asked, earning another disgusted grunt.

“Aveline,” Hawke corrected. “She said almost the same thing to me yesterday. Well. She didn’t go so far as to suggest prostitution as a means to an end, but her heart was in the same damned nosy place.”

Varric’s brows rose. “Well then! You see? Point made. If even Aveline thinks you need to stop this crazy mooning over one unstable elf, then we’re definitely on to something! You can’t go on living like a Chantry sister and making sad puppy eyes at the guy for the rest of your life. It’s past time to move on.”

“I do not make sad puppy eyes at him,” Hawke said firmly, his voice gone cold. When the dwarf continued to remain unimpressed by his obvious anger, he broke his glare and looked away. “It’s…true that things didn’t quite work out the way I was hoping,” he allowed at last, tightly, “But I respect his decision. He – I – we’re friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s true, damn it.”

“You still think he’ll change his mind,” Varric corrected. “Hawke. It was _one_ night.”

“Right. And we got over it. We’re _friends_. That’s _all_.”

“And I’m the Divine’s left tit,” Varric snorted. “Look – you and I are friends, too. But if you looked at me the way you look at him there would be a whole other set of concerns you and I would be talking out right now.”

Hawke sat back in his seat again, hard, crossing his arms and clenching his jaw as he tried to get his temper under control. “Keep imagining things all you like,” he said at last. “It doesn’t hurt me. I do feel sorry for you, though.”

“You keep saying that, but all evidence points to the fact I hit a nerve.”

“Tell me how you all found out. If I’m to endure everyone I know sticking their long noses in my business, I at least deserve to know the truth.”

Varric shifted suddenly. “Those details don’t matter,” he said with a cough. “But like I said – even if we hadn’t known, we’d still _know_.”

“My mother told you, didn’t she?”

“That’s a secret I’ll never tell.” Varric checked his mug, even knowing it was empty. The barmaid had not returned. “I think it’s time we call it a night – er, day,” he corrected, glancing at the ever-brightening windows. “We should both get some sleep, clear our heads. You, ah – you in a state to make it home all right?”

Hawke grunted, pushing up from the table. Fighting his temper only made him feel petulant. He wasn’t sure which was worse – lying to Varric or having the fact the dwarf knew he was lying shoved so plainly in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Testing the waters here. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

After they fell, a sweaty, messy, boneless tangle of limbs, and their heartbeats finally slowed and their breath began to come so softly, Fenris felt his first moment of quiet, absolute peace.

Hawke’s arms were stronger than he’d dared permit himself to imagine, wrapped tight around him, an anchor to this moment that was so far beyond what one former slave had had the capacity to believe his bloody, brutal life capable of experiencing. The mage’s body – _mage! Ha! ­_ – curled protectively around him, not a breath of air separating his broad chest from the elf’s back. Skin to skin, breath to breath, both bruised and aching and _sated_ from the desperation with which they had torn at one another – no longer men of rational thought but creatures of need. A need Fenris had never experienced.

Fenris had never _wanted_ like that before.

Gentle now, the way Hawke’s large hands explored his skin with such lazy indolence, the lips pressed to his hair, his ear, the back of his neck, the ticklish scrape of beard against his skin. The lyrium bands hummed and flickered in response, a warm, soft glow far removed from the violence of their usual angry white-hot flash. Fenris didn’t once think of days long past, when unwanted hands made those same marks itch and burn and _sear_. None of that existed within this circle of strong arms and gentle breath and cautious, newborn smiles.

Hawke’s voice was quiet and rough against his skin when he spoke, and the elf’s eyes were warm and heavy with sleep. Hawke said words that Fenris could barely comprehend in his exhausted state, and with compromised attention Fenris heard the words that had never before been spoken to him. Words that later would haunt his days as he wondered if he’d meant them, if he’d said them at all. Fenris felt himself drifting off – safe, at ease, happy, loved? – and for the first time in his life, he –

In a crumbling mansion in Hightown a pair of green eyes snapped suddenly open, only to be met by trash, debris, oppressive shadow. Fenris remained as he lay for a moment, waiting, as reality crashed against the fragments of his dream like waves in a hurricane, leaving his most treasured memories tattered and shredded, lest he dare forget their lack of belonging in his life.

Slowly the elf sat up and scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair. The sudden loss of the dream brought about a near-physical pain, yet he always found a way to wake himself at that precise moment. He could bear to torture himself, time after time, reliving a night that, even after three long years he yet remembered in exquisite, merciless detail – and yet he knew he was not strong enough to face the things that had come after.

_His eyes closing on that moment, that last breath of peace, before his dreams began to fill themselves with long forgotten memories of a time before he had been marked. A name he did not know and refused to remember. A face too soft to be his own. Waking, trapped like an animal, tearing himself from Hawke’s arms. Heart in his throat. He couldn’t catch his breath. Pacing. Panicking. Flee. Escape. Run!_

Fenris grunted and shook his head to clear it. He pressed his palms against his eyes until the pressure edged on pain and for a moment, just a moment, he considered pressing _harder_.

It took Fenris a moment to register the sound when someone began to knock on the door downstairs. He glanced around the bedroom once more, to find that the light edging the thick, moldering curtains was bright. He had slept into the afternoon. Fenris dragged himself from the filthy mattress, listening as the knocking paused, then was followed by two sharp raps. Hawke. Damn.

Fenris growled, and half considered grabbing his sword. The scruffy mage was the last person he wanted to see. Not right now. Not with sleep still hanging about on the peripherals of his consciousness and his heart twisted in the now all-too-familiar ache and his body _remembering_. Not with dreams tormenting him and the press of Hawke’s hands so prevalent in his mind he could almost swear he could feel the other man’s warmth.

Hawke had let himself in by the time Fenris reached the head of the staircase, and the elf fought a guilty jolt, as if he’d been caught – as if Hawke could somehow see what he’d been thinking as their eyes met across the room. His heart picked up. His hands clenched. _No,_ he reminded himself. _Stop it._ There was always that initial jolt when they first looked at one another.

Hawke broke eye contact first, looking around the dim mess of the other man’s living quarters as if he’d forgotten why he’d come. “Did I wake you?” he asked, frowning a little at the mess, the darkness, the quiet his voice broke so casually.

“What do you want?” Fenris demanded. He came down the stairs slowly and clamped down hard on the ridiculous things the mage stirred in him. Hawke glanced at him again, and he felt his gaze linger on a sliver of exposed collar bone left by the wide neckline of the loose, dark tunic he’d slept in. That gaze made him feel unclothed. Hawke’s lips gave a twitch when he shivered.

“I was hoping to snag a place on your dance card before you made plans for tomorrow,” Hawke said, shifting into a full-on smile, his tone light and careless in the face of the elf’s obvious sour mood. His tone belied every last thing that screamed at Fenris from those damn amber eyes of his. Hawke…devoured with his gaze. Naked hunger, longing, hurt. Why Hawke didn’t hate him, Fenris would never understand.

 _If only you’d move on_ , he wanted to tell him. _You’ll be so much happier without me._

“Talk sense or get out,” he snapped instead.

Hawke followed him as he moved to the kitchen. He could feel his eyes watching his movements, feel his frown as he took in the way the mess had grown in the last few weeks, untended and ignored by the mansion’s illegal tenant. Fenris did his best to ignore him as he took hold of the most recent crate of groceries that had been brought to him and began to shift through the offerings for something that could serve as breakfast. When Hawke’s smile fell away, Fenris couldn’t help but reflect that it couldn’t be much longer – Hawke _couldn’t_ have too many more years in him before Fenris finally managed to drive him away for good. _It will be better then_ , he told himself. _You will thank me once you see that._

“I’ve taken a job and I would like for you to come along,” Hawke answered at last.

Fenris sniffed the contents of a canister, grimaced, and tossed it toward the nearest trash pile. He wished he knew who brought the groceries, so he could tell them he didn’t like sardines. “Is this a real job,” he asked, noting how Hawke’s eyes followed the projectile, “Or is it another farce so Aveline can come in here and clean?”

“Hey, that was _one_ time,” Hawke pointed out. He leaned his hip against the counter, placing himself just that much nearer Fenris. The elf snorted softly, amused despite all attempts not to be, and permitted him to stay there. “This is legitimate,” Hawke promised. “And Aveline’s agreed to come along – so no fear of anything untoward. Your precious trash is safe for now. You don’t think we learned our lesson last time? Maker’s shit, you hissed and spit like an alley cat for two, maybe three weeks straight after that.” His chuckle, deep and warm, accentuated the reminder, made it fond, amusing, rather than insulting.

Fenris snorted again, glancing at him only to be met with a small grin – an expression that had once been nearly as rare for the mage as it was for Fenris himself. Hawke wasn’t quite within arm’s reach – he respected Fenris’s wishes – but it still felt good to have him close. He felt his shoulders slowly begin to unknot despite all of his resolve.

“You would be hopeless without me, anyway,” Fenris murmured, not nearly as gruffly as he would have liked, as he picked up another can for examination. From the corner of his eye he caught a brief flash of another grin from the other man and he felt his own lips twitch, desperate to respond in kind.

“Caught onto that, have you?” Hawke asked quietly.

Fenris pretended he hadn’t heard, though he was certain they both knew he had. He finally settled on a can of some sort of potted meat, the origins of which it was best not to contemplate, and he began to pick at the seal. “Where is it we are meant to be going?” he asked, accepting, as he always inevitably did, that for today at least he had failed to push the man away.

The fact he certainly could have tried harder was purely incidental.

“Sundermount,” Hawke said, and laughed at the face Fenris shot his way. The noise was low and warm and made his markings twitch and hum in anticipation of something that would never come again. “There’s a criminal hiding out near the Dalish. An assassin or something. Should be fun.”

“Your idea of fun is entirely suspect.”

“So is your idea of ‘edible’.”

Fenris glanced at his breakfast, then back at Hawke, extending the can, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Do you want some, then?”

Hawke shook his head. “I wish you would let me – “ he began, but never finished his sentence. He had reached out, unthinking, as if to touch his hair or his face, and Fenris had tensed, immediately losing every bit of the ease and comfort the mage had worked so hard to coax out of him. Hawke realized his mistake almost instantly and dropped his hand, but it was too late, and the two fell into a tense silence.

Some days were easy – far easier than they had any right to be. Fenris knew Hawke had worked for that ease, fought for it like the stubborn fool he was. Hawke had been the one to come to Fenris’s house, night after night, after their ill-fated rendezvous, when neither could bare to look the other in the eye, just to teach him to read. Hawke had been the one to insist that Fenris remain at his side through countless jobs and battles and scuffles, refusing to let him fade into the background of his life, until there were some in the underworld who now went so far as to refer to the elf as the Champion’s shadow, so rare was it to see them apart. Fenris knew he was trying to prove to him that he still needed him, still trusted him, respected him, even if Fenris was unable to –

But there were some days which were harder. Days when Hawke looked at him like he was looking at him now, and Fenris _ached_ , and each of them knew without a doubt that the other was thinking about _that night_. Days when Fenris remembered all the reasons he was a fool to stay so close to Hawke, following like the loyal dog instead of making the man hate him as he should. Days when he remembered he didn’t deserve his kindness or his affection or his longing. He had made a mistake. He had to live with that. Three years or thirty, Hawke would have to move on eventually, no matter how much either of them might wish otherwise.

Hawke cleared his throat and looked away, leaning back against the counter again and staring at the ceiling. “Maybe I should go,” he offered. He waited, but Fenris didn’t tell him not to.

And the silence, once he was gone, was a screaming, merciless, pounding torment. The empty void of the place Hawke had been, watching him with those damned eyes of his dark with naked longing – the solitude cut at him, seared him, flayed him to the bone.

 _Fool, fool, fool, fool._ He stared at his hands, clenched right, like claws. _Chase him down,_ screamed an irrational part of his mind, a deafening cacophony of conflicting impulse. _Find him, catch him, beg, beg, beg._

With a cry he flung his breakfast hard against the wall, barely paused to watch it ooze, juices dripping, to the floor, before he had taken up the crate of groceries and smashed it with all its contents, splintered and shattering, against the wall, hating himself and everything he was, everything he’d ever been.

Outside, those who passed by too near hurried their step, diverted their gaze, crossed to the other side of the fine Hightown street. How strange, they remarked to themselves, for the mansion’s angry spirits to be so active in the middle of the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't set an update schedule yet. This was ready and I was reasonably pleased with it, so up it goes. A bit of a shift in gear from the previous chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this far!


	3. Chapter 3

“What was that girl’s name? The one with the pretty eyes and the nice hips? Moira? Maureena?” Varric rolled the names on his tongue, eyes oh-so-innocently pointed skyward and hands clasped behind his back as he strode at Hawke’s side up the winding mountain path. The dwarf’s mouth slipped into a knowing smirk when Hawke’s eyes darted quickly to Fenris, scouting up ahead. He raised his voice. “You know the one, Hawke. She dropped her basket so you could look down her blouse? Nice, fresh apples. In the basket.”

“She tripped. I see no ulterior motive in that,” the mage’s voice was edged with a growl. The journey up Sundermount had never seemed so long, nor so irritating. It was truly amazing how Varric and Aveline both managed to keep finding so many sexually unattached young men and women to _casually_ bring up in conversation.

“Melina,” Aveline supplied, so very helpfully.

Hawke shot a glare over his shoulder. “I thought you were better than this,” he ground out, jaw clenched. Aveline smiled and shrugged.

“She did have lovely apples, Hawke,” she said.

“This is revenge, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

At her side, Varric snickered – as if he hadn’t been at least partially responsible himself for the manner in which they’d tormented their beloved guard captain over Donnic so many years ago. Hawke should have known those days would come back to haunt him. He should have known his friend would be biding her time, just waiting for her perfect opportunity to return his _help_ in kind. His only hope now was that Aveline had something particularly nasty in the works for Varric, as well.

When he turned his attention back to the trail, it was to find the burn of green eyes hot against his skin. Fenris had stopped and was watching them all, his expression utterly impassive.

“Are you three prepared to continue, or shall we set up a camp so that you can continue your gossip in peace?” the elf asked mildly.

“You got an opinion on Melina, Elf?” Varric asked.

“None at all,” he answered, turning back to the trail once more. “If Hawke has developed a sudden taste for _apples_ , it is certainly no business of mine.”

Varric lifted his brows significantly at Hawke. “You see?” he asked. “He gives his blessing. Say – I wonder if she likes dancing?”

“You had best watch your step, dwarf,” Hawke warned. “These mountain paths are known to be treacherous.”

Varric only laughed.

It was odd how unconcerned the Dalish had been with pointing them in the right direction for tracking the Antivan assassin. Despite the small favors he had done here and there for the clan over the years, they still treated him and his friends with nothing more than a cautious sort of courtesy – fragile and libel to shatter at the first infraction. Hawke couldn’t get within a mile of the encampment without the prickling feeling of eyes watching him, or untold numbers of arrows pointed his way. He would have been concerned with the possibility of a trap waiting for them, except for the fact that the Dalish had had plenty of other opportunities to attack.

They were not being watched now – at least, Hawke didn’t think they were. The path to the mountain cave was narrow and relatively straightforward. Fenris kept scouting ahead for signs of their target, never staying too near the rest of the group, but after nearly an hour of walking in uneventful (relative) peace, even Hawke was growing less diligent when it came to keeping watch on their surroundings.

Unfortunately, the lack of excitement gave Varric and Aveline _ample_ time to torture him.

“All right, then, Hawke, what about that new crewman down at the docks? Mikhael, was it?” Varric asked. He drew the question out casually, lazily, clearly savoring his friend’s annoyance. “Word on the street is, he has big… _hands_.”

“Word on the street?” Hawke echoed. “How do you even go about making those kinds of inquiries?”

“Cautiously,” Varric answered mildly, with a shrug.

“I’ve heard he can knot a cherry stem with his tongue,” Fenris offered. The elf spoke with his back to them, and his tone was both dry and utterly disinterested.

Hawke missed a step and stumbled, his grip on his stave all that prevented an undignified sprawl into the dirt. Varric covered his surprise much more quickly than the mage had managed to.

“A cherry stem, huh?” the dwarf echoed. “Where did you hear that?”

“Around.” Fenris paused for a moment, squatting to check a track, and as he rose he said, with a voice that was somewhere between thoughtful and bored, “You would probably enjoy him, Hawke.” He didn’t wait for a response, moving ahead again along the trail.

“Interesting,” Varric said after a moment.

Hawke didn’t answer, setting his jaw as he began to move forward again. Varric fell back a little, but had least he and Aveline had the grace to fall silent for the moment.

Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, and even with the distance they’d travelled from the ocean occasional powerful bursts of wind would kick up, bringing with them the stench of salt and fish and the rotting garbage that inevitably came to line Kirkwall’s harbor. When they had set out early that morning, the waves had been frothing, white and wild.

Though his friends had fallen quiet, offering a much needed reprieve from their teasing, Hawke only felt his tension growing. It was a tightness between his shoulders, a dull ache forming behind his eyes like the storm brewing on that dark horizon. His eyes drifted, again and again, to the lithe, sharp lines of the elf ahead – to the vibrant flash of red on his wrist. That burst of color had served as a kind of touchstone to Hawke, a fortification to his hope. He had looked to it many times since the fateful night they had spent together.

For the first time in three years, a wriggle of doubt had squirmed its way into Hawke’s mind.

“Here,” Fenris said, his voice drawing Hawke from his thoughts. He turned to face them, and the green gaze that so briefly touched on Hawke before flickering quickly away revealed absolutely nothing – no warmth, no interest. One question came, unbidden, to Hawke’s mind.

_Have I been making a fool of myself, all this time?_

“The cave is just ahead,” Fenris said. “We should proceed with caution.”

Varric slung Bianca from his shoulder, turning her this way and back as he checked her various settings and mechanisms. “Just to be clear, what are we expecting to find here – the usual? Giant spiders, meandering corpses – and, oh, right, a renegade assassin?”

“Hawke really does plan the _nicest_ day trips,” Aveline said. Fenris snorted, and his gaze once more moved quickly over Hawke then away, without lingering. “Shall we?” Aveline asked.

Into the damp dark cool of the cave they ventured, the air thin and cold and smelling faintly of spider musk and death. Fenris reached back to loosen his sword and fell in closer to the group – closer to Hawke – as the mage summoned a small, watery light to guide their way.

“The real question about Mikhael of the talented tongue and Melina of the plump, glorious apples is how they feel about body hair,” Varric spoke quietly so his voice wouldn’t echo, his eyes watchful for the first sign of danger, his mouth curling into the beginnings of a smirk.

“What?” Hawke demanded flatly.

That smirk grew. “Well, no offense. You just strike me as a man who has a lot of body hair. For a human.”

“You’re really risking giving away our position just to ask about something like _that_?”

“He _does_ have a lot of body hair,” Fenris murmured.

“Oh, Hawke,” Aveline said. “You really should keep that trimmed.”

A sudden _whoosh_ of air was the only warning before something crashed into Hawke’s side like an angry druffalo, sending him crashing hard to the ground. His mage light flickered as his concentration nearly broke and the high-pitched squealing screams of the giant spiders filled the air of the cave. Hawke groped for his stave and used it to haul himself into a crouch, even as Fenris stepped in front of him, sword bared, to intercept the lunge of giant mandibles dripping with venom.

“Are you harmed?” the elf demanded, grunting as the spider crashed into his blade with enough force to send his feet sliding back nearly an inch in the dirt.

Hawke’s entire right side felt like one large bruise as he hauled himself to his feet. He put his back to Fenris, offering himself as something to bolster against the force of the spider’s onslaught as he gathered power. “I doubt I’ll be quite so pretty tomorrow,” he said tightly, “But I’ll be fine.”

“When were you ever pretty?” Fenris taunted dryly. He grunted again as he parried another blow from the spider. Hawke didn’t hesitate to trust that he could handle himself, and instead he turned his attention to the quartet of other spiders threatening to overwhelm Varric and Aveline, just a few paces away.

These were smaller than the one Fenris faced – the size of particularly well-fed mabari, perhaps, rather than a hefty draft horse. Aveline stood in the middle of them, more defensive than offensive as she struggled to fend them off. Varric had scrambled up atop a ledge and was pelting their thick, tough bodies with crossbow bolts just as quickly as Bianca could be reloaded.

Fire arched from Hawke’s hands and the stench of burning hair and flesh filled the cavern as the spiders screamed and writhed but redoubled their assault, crashing themselves against Aveline’s shield again and again. She let one bite down on a heavily gauntleted forearm and pushed it back, bashing it against a cave wall and then slashing at another with her sword, but neither was ready to quit just yet.

“And here I thought you were gonna fight the entire battle flat on your ass,” Varric called to Hawke, locking in another bolt.

Hawke and Fenris fought back to back, as they had many times before, falling easily into the rhythm they had discovered long ago. Hawke’s stave spun and twisted freely around his body as he channeled his power through it without once striking or otherwise impeding the warrior behind him. Fenris darted and lunged and fell back as needed, using the support of the strong figure behind him to keep from being pushed back or losing his footing.

A powerful surge of lightning sent a spider into spasms and it crumpled, legs curling in on themselves with a last, high-pitched keen. Aveline cut another down and turned her attention to the next as if she’d barely noticed.

The noxious stench of the creature’s innards filled the cavern when Fenris finally found his opening and pushed forward, blade slicing the spider’s belly open. Hawke felt the splatter of gore against his back as the elf darted past him to help dispatch the final two.

“Disgusting,” Varric said when it was over, as he painstakingly collected whatever bolts were salvageable, then tried in vain to find something to clean them off on. “Hawke, next time you want to make plans, might I suggest a nice, quiet card game?”

“Is everyone all right?” Hawke asked. He looked specifically to Fenris, who was so covered in mess that it was impossible to tell if he had been injured.

“I need a bath,” the elf said, unnecessarily.

“I’m serious, Hawke. Why do we always take jobs like this?” Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder again and grinned. “Substitute librarian too exciting for you?”

“Evidently.”

“You’re going to have a black eye, Hawke,” Aveline pointed out with amusement. “Did you really think you needed something to enhance that reputation of yours?”

“I think I’ll tell everyone down at the Hanged Man that he fought the spiders off single-handedly,” Varric mused. “And bare-chested.”

“Well,” Fenris murmured. “Perhaps _that_ will intrigue your apple girl.” He glanced briefly at Hawke. “Shall we move on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter begins the thrilling task of attempting to integrate game dialogue without screwing the pacing. Yay.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much to everyone who has read this far. Even more, thank you to those who have left comments and kudos. Your encouragement means more than you know. I truly appreciate that you've taken the time to read my little story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some in-game dialogue interspersed in this chapter.

A tremor went through the creature’s disjointed legs and with one final, violent shudder the varterral fell. It was a heinous thing, an affront to creation, and it had proudly and viciously made known its distaste for the intrusion on its territory.

Balanced on the balls of his feet in anticipation, ready to lunge forward and strike again should the need arise, Fenris waited until even the last of the monster’s death throes had stilled before he fell back to his heels and let the tip of his sword come to rest in the dirt. Lifting a forearm to wipe at the blood and worse things that covered his face only seemed to accomplish the task of smearing it in all the more. He could feel his hair, slick, sticky, and stinking, plastered to his forehead. He couldn’t stop a brief glance at Hawke.

Perhaps it was only the dim lighting, but the bruising along the side of the mage’s face seemed to be growing darker, adding to the usual roughness of his appearance – that shaggy head and beard, the ferocity lurking in those amber brown eyes. Indeed, he looked like a wild animal now as he gazed about the cavern with his shoulders back and tense, ready for danger. He met Fenris’s eyes with an intensity that sent any number of inconvenient and foolish emotions coursing through his veins like lightning.

Fenris scowled at him and pried his gaze away with effort. Weak. He was weak. Worse, though the decidedly unfriendly denizens of the cave surely presented a useful opportunity for violence, the multiple skirmishes they had endured during the search for their target had failed to improve the elf’s rapidly souring mood.

“Is everyone all right?” Hawke asked, as he always did. His tone was low and gruff and sent prickling shivers down Fenris’s skin despite any attempt to ignore it. He knew Hawke was still looking at him, and so Fenris refused to glance his way. He had no desire to see those bruises again, anyway. Three cavernous rooms ago, while his thick little fingers dexterously worked to disable a line of traps left for them by their target, Varric had gone out of his way to paint a word picture in excruciating detail. Now, Fenris found it all too easy to imagine some waif of a girl with soft, high breasts and gentle hands tending Hawke’s injuries upon his return to the city.

Somehow, it appeared, Fenris had done something to get on Varric and Aveline’s bad side, though try as he might he found himself hard pressed to pinpoint a single cause that could be to blame for the manner in which they had chosen to torment him on this journey. Each word that spilled from either of their damned mouths somehow, inevitably, came to be about the prospect of Hawke taking a lover.

Perhaps, Fenris thought painfully, Hawke _already_ had someone in mind. Perhaps he had asked them to ease Fenris into the idea with their goading and their teasing. Whether that was the case or they were purposefully trying to be hurtful Fenris did not know, but he had gritted his teeth and endured, even _agreed with_ some of their nonsense, because like it or not _it was what was best for Hawke._

Regardless. Fenris’s mood was _foul_.

“Now, _you_ I wasn’t expecting.”

The voice that jerked Fenris out of his thoughts was dark, smooth as satin, and brimming with amusement like an overfull glass of champagne. He tensed immediately, his hands tightening on the grip of his broadsword as he sought out the source. He found it along an upper ledge, where a figure crouched watching them with a gleam of laughing eyes, but before he could raise the alarm the figure leapt neatly to the ground and stepped from the shadows with a decided flourish.

It was an elf, well-formed and slender, with a face that was likely considered handsome to those interested in such things. His smile was too cocky, too mocking and confident, and it made Fenris bristle without quite knowing the reason why. The stranger paused a moment under their gazes, preening a bit under the attention, it seemed, before he cut a lavish, courtly bow.

“How do you do?” the elf asked. His Antivan accent was thick, and after a moment more observing the others he turned his attention solely to Hawke. “My name is Zevran Arainai, adventurer, and occasional assassin,” he said, rolling his words like a kiss on a steamy summer night, a smile playing at his lips. He gave a rich, warm chuckle. “I must admit, I was waiting for an assault by the Crows, not the _mighty_ Champion of Kirkwall!”

Fenris decided that he hated him.

Movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention – Hawke, drawing himself up taller, straighter. Glimmers of the man he had been when Fenris had first met him always showed through during times like these. That hard man whose shoulders were heavy with the weight of responsibility and loss, failure and forgotten dreams, who would shoulder hardship first, so no one else had to. Carver admitted once over drinks that it was his friendships which had caused his brother to soften, to finally accept help for his burden – first through Aveline, then Varric, and then, eventually, the others - even, somehow, Fenris. Carver did not count _himself_ among those who had helped shape his sibling into the man he became, and the bitterness of that knowledge was sharp as it was obvious. The gaze Hawke shifted over the assassin as he assessed the elf was dangerous, hard, and calculating.

“How do you know I’m the Champion?” Hawke demanded, and his voice was like ice.

The Antivan chuckled again, the sound low and deep – a seductive sound calculated to bring to mind inky shadows and tousled sheets, the stench of sweat and sex, the press of skin. “Slayer of Qunari, Deep Roads explorer, and, may I say, one fine specimen of manhood? You underestimate your fame.”

Fenris fought to keep his face blank, fought the urge to flicker forward, fast and fatal, to rip the stranger’s throat out and toss it into the dirt.

Varric snickered and gave a low, suggestive whistle and Hawke blinked, surprise and confusion flickering over his face, warring with that other, harder, expression he’d worn.

“I’ve been hired to bring you in,” Hawke said at last, honestly, his grip shifting on his stave as if to prepare for another fight. The Antivan, however, only laughed.

“Aaaah, let me guess,” the assassin nodded. “A man named Nuncio has asked you to capture a _dangerous_ killer, yes?” somehow he managed to sound both agitated and seductive at once. Maker’s _shit_ was it really necessary for him to _purr,_ though? “What did he say this time, I wonder? That I killed his wife? Butchered his parents? Sold his children into slavery? Or – did he tell you he was a lawman from Antiva, charged with apprehending a _ridiculously_ handsome fugitive?”

Hawke frowned, and didn’t answer him for a long moment, his dark brows knitting, his hand twisting on the grip of his stave. He examined the blonde from head to toe, then set his jaw. Fenris tensed as Hawke glanced, briefly, at Varric and Aveline, half convinced the stranger would use his inattention to pull a dagger.

“He didn’t…mention _how_ handsome,” Hawke said at last. Fenris jerked.

Hawke’s stupid voice had tried to slide into a suggestive tone but had been unwilling to completely relent that stern, hard edge. The result had sounded absolutely ridiculous and it took all of Fenris’s control not to go ahead and tell him so.

Despite the utter stupidity and awkwardness with which the line had been delivered, the Antivan positively preened under the attention, lifting his chin proudly and giving a deep, knowing chuckle.

“Aaah, so you’ve noticed!” he said with pleasure. Fenris found his hands itching to do something violent and glowy and inevitably fatal. “I credit my high cheekbones and pouty lips.”

Hawke’s eyes did, indeed, drop to those lips.

The assassin chuckled warmly, then finally sighed and nodded. “Bring me to Nuncio, then, if you wish,” he said. “But I warn you – he surely intends to kill you. The Crows do not like loose ends – unlike myself. But, aah,” he eyes dropped suggestively to take in Hawke’s form, and his so-called _pouty_ lips curved into a suggestive smile. “You are… _clearly_ a man who can handle himself, no?” He looked as if he knew _exactly_ what Hawke looked like under his clothing. “So, you can either tie me up, gag me, and then… _manhandle_ me…or you can take me to Nuncio. Mmn, which will it be, I wonder?”

Hawke’s lips twitched. “You are very compliant for a fugitive.”

“Compliant, yes. And also _very_ bendy,” the Antivan said. “But, truthfully, I know when I am outmatched. I would rather take my chances with the Crows.”

Hawke shook his head. “I’m not going to hand you over to someone who lied to me.”

When the assassin smiled, it struck Fenris as more genuine than all the previous smirks and simpers and purring stupidity. Fenris still hated him. “As a suggestion,” the Antivan warned, “You may wish to deal with Nuncio anyway.” He gave another courtly bow, and allowed his eyes to freely and greedily roam over Hawke’s form one last time. “It has been… _more_ than a pleasure, my dear champion. Fare you well.”

Fenris watched the way Hawke watched him walk away. He watched for as long as he could bare it, and then he turned himself away, and planted his eyes on the far cave wall. The effort it cost to keep his expression smooth was exhausting, and he was nearly trembling with the force of it.

Varric had the (uncharacteristic) grace to remain quiet until the assassin was well out of ear shot, and then he gave a loud and suggestive whistle, his grin splitting his face.

“Hawke, you really are a Ferelden _dog_!” he whooped with approval. “I didn’t know you had it in you! So Hawke Jr. still works after all, eh? Do you need to sit down? I’m sure it can be overwhelming to have the little guy wake up after so many years.”

Aveline made a disapproving noise, and shook her head. “It’s an…interesting direction,” she allowed. She was more restrained than Varric, but certainly still approving. Fenris could feel the pull of Hawke’s eyes on him, but he refused to look his way.

 _This was what_ you _wanted,_ he spat at himself. It was _better_ for Hawke to move on and forget him. _Better_ for him to find someone else to invest his affections in. Fenris had had three damn years to grow accustomed to the idea and he should count himself lucky he’d had _that_.

“You two go ahead,” Hawke told Varric and Aveline. “I want to have another look around this place before I head up.”

Would it sting any less, Fenris wondered, if Hawke had started with someone he could actually care for? Wasn’t it better if he eased himself – eased them both – back in with a brief fling with some cheap assassin whore they would likely never lay eyes on again?

 _You wanted this,_ Fenris told himself again, more sternly. _He needs this. He can’t be alone forever just because you’re…broken._

“Fenris,” Hawke said his name quietly, the sound alone nearly enough to send the elf to his knees to beg for another chance. “Are you all right?” His fingers brushed his elbow, just the slightest graze of a touch, and Fenris pulled himself quickly away, turning to face him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Fenris asked. His own voice sounded nearly normal, if a little more cold than usual.

Hawke was frowning, as if he could somehow see the anguish the elf fought so hard to hide. “I wanted to explain,” he began.

“Why bother?” Fenris forced a smirk, humorless though it was. “It seems you have a _type_ , don’t you? You should have taken him up on his offer. Maker knows you could use the release.”

He only saw Hawke’s reaction for a moment – the surprise, the hurt – before Fenris pushed past, heaving for the cave exit after Varric and Aveline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is my favorite >>
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...

It had seemed a perfect, if probably temporary, solution Hawke’s current most pressing problem. A little harmless flirting with an attractive stranger wouldn’t cost him anything – he didn’t have to go so far as to follow through, after all, and they were likely never to see the fellow again, anyway. Varric and Aveline would have their stupid meddlesome obsession satisfied, for a time at least, and Fenris –

He wasn’t sure how he’d thought Fenris would react. Had he hoped for some jealousy? Some indication that it bothered him? It certainly bothered him that the elf simply…hadn’t cared. It was like an itch he couldn’t reach, a strange, dull, empty ache he couldn’t fill. He felt like a child, struggling with hurt feelings.

“Excellent! Killing my former brothers in arms – it is oddly satisfying!” the assassin, Zevran Arainai, said brightly as rose from his squat near one of the bodies. He bounced a coin purse in his hand for a moment before neatly pocketing it, his expression pleased. His smile was bright and wicked in the shifting afternoon sun.

The Antivan camp lay in ruins around them. Bodies littered the ground, Nuncio and his comrades, their blood slowly soaking into the sandy soil. It was bright here against the mountain, but dark clouds still gathered in the distance, providing an eerie kind of contrast. The storm had yet to break, but even from here the low roar of the waves battering Kirkwall’s harbor was a dim and constant roar.

Zevran’s smile grew as he looked Hawke’s way, and there was no doubt in the mage’s mind that the golden elf had definite ideas as to the manner in which he planned to celebrate the deaths of his foes. That smile, that blatant interest, only made something in Hawke hurt. What wouldn’t he have given for Fenris to look at him that way?

Zevran approached, his walk confident and eye catching and certainly something Hawke would have taken notice of once, many years ago. He took Hawke’s hand and slipped something into it. “I’ve little in the way of reward for you, Champion,” he said, “But perhaps this will serve as my thanks.”

He stood a little nearer than necessary. He smelled of leather and pricey cologne, and yet Hawke barely saw him. The mage didn’t so much as look at his reward as he slipped it into a pocket of his robes and weakly returned his smile.

“It is time for me to move on,” Zevran said as if he truly regretted it. His eyes, Hawke noted, seemed to lack the heat his voice and body language implied. “Unless you would care to get to know each other better, Champion?”

Hawke chuckled, but barely felt anything, could barely even concentrate on the pretty face before him.

Wouldn’t it have been too easy for Hawke to simply see what he’d wanted to see? For three years Hawke had waited, Fenris a near-constant presence at his side. Hawke’s feelings had only grown stronger in all that time.

But Fenris had never said how he felt, had he? Nor given any indication of what he wanted.

Hawke realized he had guessed, he had hoped, he had assumed. But he’d never _asked_. He’d told himself he couldn’t. Fenris didn’t want to talk about it. Fenris wore that flash of red about his wrist, bright and strengthening and – and Hawke had told himself that was enough. As long as he wore the favor, Hawke would _know_.

But who was Hawke to assign a meaning to such a thing? Hawke could have been wrong, all this time.

 _Hawke could have been wrong_.

Zevran was still waiting on his answer, smiling and suggestive and lovely – and the last thing Hawke wanted. He began to shake his head, opening his mouth to decline, perhaps apologize –

And Fenris once more brought the world to a screeching halt.

“That depends,” Fenris bit out, his voice cold and angry and spiteful. When Hawke turned sharply to look at him, he found the elf glaring at Zevran, a scowl on his face, hands twin trembling fists at his sides. “How much do you wish to test that luck of yours?” Fenris seethed.

Time stopped. Hawke was half certain his heart did, as well.

And when it all started up again, everything seemed once more to have shifted into its proper place.

“Oh, I…I see,” Zevran said, and looked between them, taking in first Fenris in his fury then Hawke in his naked surprise. The assassin chuckled. “Fair enough, then,” he said, as if he suddenly, somehow, understood it all. “It is time to move on, as they say. I have a little war to wage back home, and so little time.” He stepped back and gave a bow, looking between them one last time before giving another little chuckle and shaking his head. “Perhaps we will meet again, Champion.”

When he was gone, and only the distant roar of the waves filled their ears, Hawke pushed his body into motion, moving toward Fenris, reaching for his arm.

His fingers barely brushed him before the elf tore his arm away and turned himself toward the path. “We should move on,” he said, his voice hard, his head lowered.

The journey back to Kirkwall was a long one, made in virtual silence. Hawke spent it staring at Fenris’s back, willing him to turn and speak to him, to no avail. Varric and Aveline hung back, and mercifully had the sense to discontinue their earlier game in the wake of the elf’s jealous outburst. Even the gentlest attempts at conversation were rebuffed, and Fenris would not lift his head to look at a single one of them. He left them as soon as they reached Kirkwall.

“Hawke, I…I don’t know if I owe you an apology or a good firm smack,” Aveline said before they parted ways. Hake lifted his brows.

“You’re partially responsible for this,” he pointed out.

“I’ll take your thanks in the form of chocolates.” She found a clean spot on his cheek to kiss, and was gone, leaving Hawke and Varric alone.

Varric gave a grin that was tired and a bit unsure. “Well, color me surprised,” he said at last. “Who knew the Elf had it in him? I had no idea he…well…”

“You even had me questioning, for a moment.”

“What should I say? Congratulations? Should I apologize? How about ‘go get ‘em, Champ’?”

“He’s not going to be happy.”

“Last time I saw the Elf _that_ angry, a slaver bitch lost her heart,” Varric agreed. “I thought for a second he was going to take that Antivan’s head off. If I’d had any idea he was hiding _that_ in him, I…well, I’m sorry Hawke. I guess I was wrong.”

“Can I get you to say that again?”

The drawf chuckled. “Hey, believe it or not, it does happen from time to time,” he said, then hesitated. “Look – you want my advice?”

“It’s all been wrong so far, so why not? Chances are you’re bound to be right one of these days.”

“Go home,” Varric said. “Get cleaned up. Give him some time to brood over everything and, Maker willing, wash his hair. Just guessing those spider guts will ruin the romantic vibe. Then again, I’ve never fucked an unsteady, murderous, lyrium-marked ex-slave before, so what do I know? Spider guts may be your special kink.”

“Truly a beautiful sentiment. It’s amazing your romance serial doesn’t sell better.”

“Look, just – give him an hour or two. You’ve waited this long, right? Let him process, then go bang his brains out. Oh, and report back to me at the Hanged Man tomorrow morning. I think you owe me a free breakfast for my assistance. What good is a trusty Dwarven sidekick if you don’t spoil him from time to time, eh?” he lifted his hand in half a wave as he began to walk away.

“If this works out, you are _not_ taking credit for it, Varric!” Hawke called after him.

“Don’t skimp on the lubricant!” he shot back – another free bit of advice.

In spite of what was, actually, fairly sound council, it took everything within Hawke to convince his feet to carry him home and not directly to Fenris. In truth, the only way he made it was the small hope that the elf could have gone there to wait for him – a hope which proved futile as soon as he walked in the door. After the events of the day, it would have been nice not to have to track him down and force him to have the discussion that was now necessary.

Yet, when did things ever go smoothly for the mage?

Hawke managed to hold himself back for barely an hour. He bathed, treated his injuries, dressed in clean clothes, and paced his library until he could stand it no more. Clean and smelling strongly of the elfroot paste he had applied to his bruising, he dismissed the servants for the night and left.

Fenris’s face played in his mind as his legs devoured the pavement in long, ground-eating strides. Jealous, angry, hurt – what was to come would _not_ be an easy discussion. There was also the distinct possibility that following Varric’s advice and waiting would prove a mistake. Fenris could have worked himself up into a real rage by now. He could have shut himself down into something Hawke couldn’t reach.

He could be _gone_.

Hawke was notexpecting that Fenris would fall into his arms, confess his feelings, and vow undying love. He was not expecting one jealous outburst to magically fix every hurt and scar and fear that had kept them apart over these long, frustrating years.

But, as Hawke let himself into the mansion, he _was_ expecting that they would finally, _finally_ talk. He would do whatever it took to see that it happened. It was time, past time, for each to make plain where he stood, then agree on a plan to set to work on whatever it was that kept Fenris from being ready. No more ignoring it, no more waiting in the dark with no clue as to whether or not what he was waiting for even existed. Hawke was ready to dig his heels in and have a knock-down, drag-out fight over it, if need be. Relationships took _work_. Hawke was _willing_ to work.

And then Hawke found him, once more in the kitchen, and the entire speech he had prepared flew directly out of his head.

Despite Hawke’s promises to the contrary, someone – probably Donnic – had cleaned while they had been away. Fenris stood scowling in the middle of the uncharacteristically tidy kitchen, glaring daggers at a fancy fruit basket. He was barefoot, clad in loose black pants and a gray sweater at least three sizes too large and his hair, clean of arachnid guts, curled damply at the nape of his neck.

That was all Hawke had time to notice. In three strides he was across the room, and Fenris was in his arms. There was a brief, alarmed flare of blue from the elf’s markings, but Hawke didn’t notice, didn’t think about the danger of touching Fenris without warning, didn’t consider anything at all but catching the elf’s lips with his own.

Fenris’s hands fisted against his shoulders as if to push him away – but then his mouth softened under Hawke’s, and his arms slid around him in kind, and his body, so warm and solid, shifted _closer_.

Hawke pressed him into the nearest surface, his kiss as hungry and as desperate as if he truly could convey all of three years of agonized longing with his mouth alone. The fruit basket from Donnic crashed, unnoticed, to the ground as Hawke lifted Fenris bodily and planted him atop the counter. The elf’s legs went immediately around his waist, pulling him closer still, his hips shifting in an urgent, eager way that made Hawke groan against his mouth.

Hawke kissed him harder, starving for him, his hands sliding up under that sweater, hungry for bare flesh, and Fenris shivered under his touch and returned the kiss with just as much fervor. His legs tightened around Hawke, and a hand gripped his hair – demanding, controlling. Fenris gave a low, throaty growl of protest when Hawke broke his mouth away in order to attack the column of his throat, but the elf let his head fall back to expose his throat, anyway. He rocked his hips impatiently into Hawke’s once more.

The times they had touched since that single, ill-fated night had been excruciatingly rare, and Hawke found his hands incapable of satisfying their lust for flesh now, sliding hungrily against his skin under the sweater.

“Hawke,” Fenris groaned, a low and gravelly growl as the mage’s mouth possessively sought to mark his neck. His hand tightened in Hawke’s hair, and Hawke responded with a growl of his own, sliding a hand down the back of the elf’s pants, gripping - “ _Hawke_.” Fenris gave his hair a sudden, unexpected jerk, forcing Hawke’s head suddenly, painfully away. “ _Stop_!”

The desperation in his voice was all Hawke needed. Before his mind could even comprehend the order he had released the elf and taken an involuntary step back, his hands lifted in surrender.

Silent, they stared at each other, each breathing heavily, each undeniably aroused. Fenris’s eyes were dilated, filled with naked want, and with a strange mixture of pride and horror Hawke realized he had left bruises along the other’s neck.

“I’m…sorry,” Hawke said at last, after what seemed like a small eternity of silence. “I…I shouldn’t have…”

“What,” Fenris swallowed, hard. He was still staring at him, his hands now gripping the counter beneath him. “What are you doing here, Hawke?”

“I thought…this afternoon…” Hawke fell silent once again, and the two continued to stare at one another. The distance between them felt like miles. “I’m sorry,” Hawke said again. “I didn’t mean to start this way.”

“I don’t…want you, Hawke,” Fenris said, dropping his eyes.

“Fenris…”

“I’m sorry it’s taken you this long to understand,” he bit out. His voice had gone low and bitter and angry. “You need to stop waiting for me. I don’t want you.”

Hawke frowned as he watched him. “You can’t even look at me to say it.”

Fenris jerked as if struck. His hand lashed out to grab hold of Hawke’s shirt as he lifted his head to look him dead in the eyes.

“ _I-don’t-want-you_!” he snarled, and they both knew, immediately, he was lying. Hawke knew Fenris could see it – confirmation in Hawke’s eyes that he knew, _knew_ how the elf felt – and Fenris quickly diverted his gaze once more.

Hawke pushed away – away from the counter, away from Fenris – and paced a moment, scrubbing his hands violently through his hair. “What are you _doing_ , Fenris?” he demanded at last. “What do I have to do? _Talk_ to me, damn it!”

“This isn’t about you,” Fenris spat.

“No. No, it’s not,” Hawke agreed. “It’s about you. And I’m here. I’m right here, Fenris, and I want to help you and you won’t – do you have any idea how frustrating this is?”

“I’m sorry you have feelings I can’t return,” Fenris’s voice was hard, cold, determined. “I never asked you to wait. I don’t want you. I never will. I don’t – “

“Then why threaten the Antivan, Fenris?” Hawke demanded, rounding on him. “If you expect me to believe this bullshit, then explain to me why you looked ready to kill him this afternoon. After all – if you don’t want me, then is shouldn’t matter who I sleep with, should it?”

Fenris bowed his head and didn’t answer, falling into silence, staring at his hands in his lap. Hawke fought to reign himself in – his anger, hurt, frustration – and only allowed himself to approach when he felt more certain of keeping control of himself.

“Fenris,” he said, more gently.

“You’re right,” the elf answered, bitter. He didn’t look up. “I was wrong to interfere. He shouldn’t…” he paused, struggling, and when he continued, it was with obvious effort. “He shouldn’t have been able to find a boat yet. Perhaps I can track him down for you. Bring him back. You can…”

“No,” Hawke said quietly. “I don’t want him. I never did.”

They lapsed into silence again, and as Hawke stared down at him he noticed, for the first time, the deep cuts in the elf’s palms where Fenris must have gouged himself with his clawed gauntlets balling his hands into fists. How difficult the day must have been for him, while Hawke focused only on his own misery, convinced the elf didn’t care. How upset Fenris must have been, to prompt his outburst after so long in silence.

Hawke reached for his hands slowly and Fenris didn’t protest – only giving a small shudder as the healing spell settled over his palms. Perversely, Hawke couldn’t bring himself to allow the magic to touch the bruises he had left on his neck.

“I don’t need you to tell me you love me,” Hawke said, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t need you to say you want me, either. But I do need you to stop pushing me away.”

“Hawke,”

“No. I’ll wait – as long as I have to, I’ll wait,” Hawke said. “I’ll wait, and I won’t begrudge a single second. You’re my friend, above all else. Your health, your happiness, matters more to me than anything else. That’s as true now as it was three years ago. But I’ll be damned if I let you push me away.”

Fenris didn’t answer, didn’t look at him. It was almost physically painful, releasing his hands and stepping away.

“I’ll show myself out,” Hawke said. “Come find me when you’re ready to talk.”

Outside, thunder crashed, covering the sounds of his exit. The storm had broken at last.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shift in gears from the previous. I've tweaked it several times but I'm still not sure the transition works as intended. More notes at the end.

Rain pelted the mansion’s battered shutters and crept its way through the cracks in the windows and walls and even the ceiling. It had the poor humor to catch Fenris unaware from time to time, sending an icy cold dribble down the back of his collar whenever it was least expected, no matter how he positioned himself to avoid it.

After nearly a week of constant rain the manse had begun to smell significantly of mold, and Fenris wasn’t quite sure he remembered a life where some part of him wasn’t damp.

The howling of the wind made the mansion creak and shudder, but at least it had finally stopped filling his dreams with the cries of languishing slaves. Fenris had not stepped foot outside in a week, and the storm seemed just as likely an excuse as any. He certainly wasn’t hiding. He had enough food to last him another day or so, and Hawke’s habit of bringing him books over the course of the past several years was finally proving useful. Admittedly, most of them were terrible – the man either had atrocious taste or a worse sense of humor than Fenris had thought – but there were only so many times a body could polish his equipment, sharpen his sword, or pace his dining room.

 _Swords and Shields_ had been a particularly nauseating selection from Hawke, yet after a week cooped up with little but his own thoughts Fenris was desperate enough for distraction that he found himself curled on a pile of cushions by the fire in the study, head covered by a blanket to protect himself from drips as he hungrily devoured every last, terrible word. Perhaps it was the half-full bottle of wine that had his senses so utterly compromised. The book was so horrendous he had half a mind to venture out into the storm just to personally punch Varric in the face for writing it.

Yet, surely if he didn’t discover what happened to the guard captain he would go mad.

“Aah, this explains everything. I didn’t know elves hibernated.”

Fenris jerked and was half way to his feet, sword drawn, before his mind registered that it was _Hawke’s_ voice he had heard. The mage stood in the doorway – dripping, of course – the hood of a sodden cloak pushed back so that Fenris could clearly see his face and his hands lifted to show he was unarmed and as harmless as one could expect a mage to be – which, admittedly, was _not very_.

“I know,” Hawke said. “I said I would leave it to you to come to me. But I was beginning to fear you’d drowned. Ah – look! Peace offering?” slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, he pulled a rather soggy and squished box out from beneath his cloak. Fenris recognized the mark of a bakery he’d been known to have a particular weakness for. “In my defense, I _did_ knock,” Hawke said, when Fenris remained silent. “But I suppose now that I’ve assured myself that you are atill among the living, I should be going. I’ll just set this…”

“You went all the way to Gregorgio’s in _this_?” the unspoken _idiot_ was clearly implied in his tone. Fenris straightened, sheathing his sword and tossing it away, then crossing his arms. The bakery was clear on the other side of Hightown.

An unsure little grin slowly spread itself across Hawke’s face. “Oh good. You’re speaking to me.”

“That remains to be seen. Take off that cloak. _Venhedis,_ you’re soaked.” Fenris kicked the book aside as he stepped away from his cozy, cushiony nest. He couldn’t quiet look Hawke in the eye yet: he found he was too happy to see him. Relieved, even.

“I’m not intruding on anything, am I?” the mage called after him as Fenris stepped into the hall to track down some towels.

“Hawke, in ninety-seven percent of the situations of your life you are, most assuredly, intruding on _something_.”

The mage’s laughter followed him, and Fenris felt himself warming, his relief growing. He hadn’t been quite sure what would happen when they saw each other again.

He had worked hard to prevent these days alone from becomming the torment they could have been. True, he had used the rain as an excuse not to seek the other man out – Hawke had said _when_ he wanted to talk about it, and more than anything Fenris most certainly _did not want to talk about it_ – but while he had been half convinced that he would be helpless but to throw himself at the man on next meeting, Hawke’s words to him had somehow served to…strengthen him. Reassure him. Once he had stopped hating himself for letting the man go instead of pulling him back to finish what they’d started in the kitchen he’d felt…better. The fact Hawke was here, now, only reinforced it. Had he been anyone else it could have been said that Fenris felt almost cheerful as he pulled an armload of (relatively fresh, thanks to Donnic) towels from the linen closet.

When he returned it was to find that Hawke had spread his cloak out and left his boots by the hearth, then made himself comfortable near the little isle of cushions Fenris had made for himself. He’d picked up _Swords and Shields_ and was flipping through it with an expression of absolutely wicked mirth on his face.

“So. You’re aware that book is absolute trash,” Fenris said mildly, tossing the towels at Hawke’s head and dropping back down into his previous seat. “I had wondered.”

Hawke laughed and unfolded a towel to scrub at his hair and the last of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Isabela gave me this copy. Said it made her want to string Varric up by his ankles and flog him.”

Fenris was quiet for a moment, trying not to watch him, trying not to think of his hands, his mouth. “I would be lying if I said the same had not occurred to me,” Fenris stated at last, his voice dry.

“Well,” Hawke set the towel aside and stretched out his long legs, settling back on his elbows and smiling. “Now that you’ve read it, it’s your civic duty to pass it along to the next unfortunate member of our little family. Just…eh…not Merrill. She’s too libel to enjoy it.”

Fenris considered, taking the book from him and turning it over in his hands. “ _Anders_ ,” he decided.

“Oh, you _are_ heartless.”

Fenris did his best not to laugh, but failed, feeling his own tension subside. With his head bowed over the book, he could feel the warmth of Hawke’s gaze against his skin, and it felt good. He felt afraid to speak, afraid to move, lest something wreck the moment.

So, of course, Hawke came crashing into it instead.

“About last time…” the mage began slowly.

“Don’t.”

“Fenris…”

“It’s still not too late to throw you out.”

Hawke fell silent, frowning and looking away. Fenris thought it was over, until the mage shifted and sat up again, facing him fully. “No,” Hawke said firmly. “I said I could wait for you to come to me when you’re ready to talk, and I meant it. I’m not going to bring _us_ up again. We’ll talk about it when _you’re_ ready, and not a moment sooner, I swear it.”

Fenris watched him cautiously but didn’t answer.

“But there is something I need to say to you, and I can’t allow another day to go by with it unsaid.” Hawke was all seriousness now, his jaw set, his eyes intense. He spoke quietly, but his tone was firm and Fenris knew, absolutely, that if he did not agree the man would leave without another word. Hawke’s eyes dropped, briefly, to Fenris’s neck, where the bruises from their brief encounter had not begun to heal half so well as Hawke’s black eye. Even as Hawke frowned thinly, Fenris felt an intense flash of memory of that mouth against his flesh, his large hands tearing at his clothes, his body pressed close.

Fenris repressed a shiver and did his best to brace himself.

“All right,” he allowed.

Hawke’s eyes moved back to his face. His frown deepened, a muscle working in his jaw. Fenris found he wanted very badly to reach for him.

“Is it that bad?” the elf asked instead. The tension in his shoulders had returned.

“No. Yes. I don’t – didn’t realize this was going to be so damn difficult.” Hawke took a breath. “Fenris – I owe you an apology.”

That had been the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“An apology?” he echoed. “Over the Antivan? I am the one who acted out of line, Hawke. You didn’t – ”

“No,” Hawke interrupted. “I don’t mean that. Though – no, it was wrong of me to flirt with him, especially in front of you. In my defense, I was hoping it would get Varric and Aveline off my back for a while. Which it did. But… _balls_ …”

Fenris grunted. “They _were_ fairly obnoxious all day,” he allowed.

“You’re one to talk. You were just as bad.”

A laugh escaped him, despite all efforts to stop it. Fenris was not quite successful in repressing a smile, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards despite every effort to the contrary. Hawke echoed the expression, and looked at Fenris in such a way that the elf felt a fool for ever thinking the man would be able to move on and find someone else. Impossible as it should have been, Hawke was in love with him – of that Fenris could no longer pretend to doubt.

The mage was the first to look away. “Stop it or I’ll never get this out,” he said. “That day – I never should have touched you without permission. It was thoughtless and selfish, and I want to ask your forgiveness, if you’re willing to give it.”

When several moments passed in silence, he looked to Fenris at last. The elf shook his head. He could feel how wide his eyes must have grown.

“You…can’t give it?” Hawke asked. He looked as if he were utterly crushed, but trying his best to hide it.

“No, I – sorry,” Fenris shook his head. “No one has ever said such a bizarre thing to me.” He shook his head again, trying to clear it. Hawke was still waiting, his expression growing darker by the moment. “Yes,” Fenris said. Maker – _Leopold Hawke_ asking his forgiveness for touching him, when the sheer memory of the mage’s hands on his body had tormented him every night for the past three years. But, he supposed it did mean something that he would ask. “Yes. You are forgiven.”

Hawke’s relief was immediately evident, though it was clear something else about the discussion was bothering him still. Fenris hesitated.

“If the situation were different,” Fenris began, trying his best to keep his voice gentle.

Hawke smiled without humor. “There’s a dangerous game,” he said solemnly. “There are a great many things in this world I wish were different.”

“As do I,” Fenris allowed himself a sigh, and looked away at last. They let silence fall between them – a kind of shared understanding of pain, regret, longing. Yet, it felt good that Hawke was there. Fenris reached for the soggy, crumpled box Hawke had brought, flipping the lid to reveal a trio of only slightly crushed apple turnovers, still almost warm. “Your sense of humor is not as amusing as you assume it to be, Hawke,” he said, his lips twitching despite himself.

The mage didn’t have the decency to attempt to appear even the least bit ashamed. “I wondered if you would notice.”

“I…suppose, since you are the guest, finding plates would be in order.”

“You haven’t smashed them all in a fit of brooding rage?”

“…not all of them.”

Hawke laughed and began to rise. “I’ll go see what I can find. You get all bundled up again. It was cute.”

“I am not cute. Hawke!” he called after him. “I am _not_ cute!”

Laughter was his only answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little fluff to lighten the angst. Fenris and Hawke did not spend the last three years in constant agony giving each other longing pouty faces. There was plenty of that going on, sure, but there were also times when they could just let go and enjoy one another's company without the baggage, and that was what I was trying to show here? If you put everything else aside, they just truly and genuinely enjoy being around each other. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope it wasn't too abrupt or distracting for anyone. There is plenty of angst to come; the boys just needed a breather.


	7. Chapter 7

In regards to plates, it quickly became apparent to Hawke that when Fenris had said “not all of them” were broken he had actually meant “I have two that are not too chipped to prove serviceable.”

Hawke had hardly been in the kitchen any time at all when a knock came at the door, and though the visitor used one of the knocks specifically agreed upon to announce a member of their crew, Hawke still eased himself into the hallway to watch and listen, ready for a fight, until Fenris opened the door to allow a very drenched Aveline inside.

“I wondered if you were going to leave me out there all day,” the guard captain sniffed. “If you were hoping I would melt of float away, you – “

The murmur of their voices trailed away as Fenris led her back to the study, where at the very least a warm fire and some only slightly damp towels awaited her comfort.

Hawke returned to the kitchen. Some creative searching found some mugs, tea, and a very dented if still probably somewhat serviceable tea pot and he set some water to boil.

He hadn’t known what to expect, dropping by unannounced after promising to leave everything up to Fenris – though, of course, now he was glad he had decided to come.

He’d been in a state, which each day that passed where the elf had failed to come to call, and he’d begun to think perhaps he had truly done something unforgivable in his taking of those fevered, stolen kisses. Judging by the naked surprise on Fenris’s face when he’d apologized, he still wasn’t certain it _hadn’t_ been a grievous mistake.

He had, in fact, gotten into such a state of worry that Bodahn, fearing he was ill, had ventured out into the storm to fetch Anders – who had not been well-pleased, upon arriving, to find that Hawke was merely distracted with worry and not ill at all. The fact that worry was over _Fenris_ had somehow only made it all the worse.

“But why _him_?” the other mage had demanded – not for the first time – throwing up his arms in frustration as he paced before Hawke’s fire. “Is there _no one_ you can think of who might be a _tad_ more suitable, more stable, more… _appropriate_?”

“Well, Varric’s dating a crossbow…” Hawke had answered.

Anders had _not_ found the joke amusing.

To finally work up the nerve to come over only to find Fenris in what passed for a fairly good mood had been nothing but a relief to Hawke.

The kettle began to whistle, and Hawke pulled it to pour the water. He was trying to find a third mug for Aveline to use when raised voices from the study drew his attention. Leaving aside their treat for the time being, Hawke went to investigate. He could hear their voices clear down the hall.

“Are you _certain_ it’s her?” Fenris demanded, his voice agitated, worried – a far cry from the relaxed, teasing elf he had been with Hawke just a short time ago.

Aveline’s own voice was strained, tight with the almost motherly patience she exhibited for even the most exhaustively trying members of their little family.

“An elf matching _your_ description, on the ship _you_ named,” Hawke knew from experience that slow, deliberate manner of speech meant the woman’s temper was frayed dangerously near the point of breaking.

Hawke paused in the doorway as Fenris slammed his hands down atop at the desk, causing it to creak and tremble.

“I need to know if it’s a trap!” the elf snarled.

Hawke saw it, that moment when Aveline’s temper snapped. “I did as you asked, Fenris,” she said. “Now it’s up to you.” She rose from her chair, then paused for a moment, taken by surprise by Hawke’s presence in the doorway. That expression only lasted for a moment, however, before her eyes hardened again, her anger kindling hot and bright. “ _You_ talk to her, Hawke,” she said, throwing her still-sodden cloak around her shoulders and sweeping toward the door. “I’ve had my fill of him for today.”

Fenris growled low, but otherwise ignored her, pushing away from the desk and beginning to pace back and forth before the fire, kicking at cushions and tearing his hands through his hair.

“ _Venhedis!”_ he cursed. “ _Faste vass!”_

Hawke drew nearer slowly. “Perhaps I can help, Fenris,” he offered. He kept his tone as neutral as possible, his eyes on the distraught elf.

Fenris looked at him for a moment as if he’d forgotten he was there. Finally he sighed. “It’s my sister,” he spat, then added, almost guiltily, “I didn’t tell you, but I followed up on Hadriana’s information. Everything she said was true,” he glanced at Hawke again, but when Hawke failed to scold him for neglecting to include him, he continued, a little more certain of himself. “I had to keep it quiet,” he explained, “But…I eventually contacted Varania and sent her coin enough to come meet me. And…now she’s here.”

The revelation sent an incomprehensible shiver of dread down Hawke’s spine, but the mage did his best not to show it.

“She was in Qarinus after all?” he asked.

“My sister left Magister Ahriman’s service, and I found her in Minrathous,” Fenris explained, pacing again. “That made things more difficult. But, according to the men I paid, it’s just as Hadriana said: she’s not a slave.” Fenris stopped, looking at Hawke at last, an expression of wonder on his face. “She’s a tailor, in fact,” he said, with a considerable amount of pride for a woman he couldn’t remember.

Hawke did his best to give him a smile.

“Getting a letter to her was difficult,” Fenris continued after a moment, “And she didn’t believe me at first, but…she’s finally come.”

Hawke took a deep breath and nodded. “But, you’re concerned Denarius knows?” he asked gently.

Fenris’s hands clenched unconsciously at the name, as if in anticipation of gripping a warm, beating heart. “The more it looks as if he doesn’t, the more I am convinced he does,” Fenris admitted, looking Hawke in the eye for a moment before he began to pace again. His torment was clear.

Hawke wished, desperately, to be allowed to hold him, but didn’t permit himself to offer.

Fenris stopped, suddenly, rounding on him. “Come with me, Hawke,” he said. “I need you there when I meet her.”

Even with his eyes slightly rounded with fear, Fenris was beautiful to him. For the first time, Hawke considered what it might mean to Fenris to have family – blood family – to connect to. He had no memories, no past – but he had this single sliver of hope.

It wasn’t the possibility of an ambush by slavers that had him so agitated.

“I thought you said there was no point in meeting her?” Hawke still found himself asking.

Fenris took a deep breath. “I can’t simply leave it like this. I have to know,” he confessed. “If we go to the Hanged Man during the day, she’ll be there – for the next week, at least,” he paused and licked his lips, nervous, eyes flickering over Hawke’s face. “It…would mean a lot to me,” he confessed at last. “That’s all I ask.”

“Then we’ll go,” Hawke promised, still not feeling right over it. Was he so selfish that he was worried this sister meant to take Fenris away? “Today, if you like. Before sundown.”

Fenris looked a little stunned. “Today?” he echoed.

“Why not? You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?”

Fenris stared at him for a moment, then uttered something like a weak laugh. He sat down, hard, at the desk and held his head in his hands. “This feels so surreal,” he said. “I confess – I thought…I never thought anything would come of this, and now…”

Hawke moved closer, but refrained from touching him, though every fiber of his being yearned to wrap his arms around him and hold him, tight and secure, against himself.

“When did she reach Kirkwall?” Hawke asked quietly.

“Her ship docked just before the storm started, but word didn’t reach Aveline until this morning. She’s been so close, for nearly a full week, and I never knew.”

“Well…” Hawke said slowly. “We’ve hardly had weather conductive to sightseeing, anyway. You’ll have plenty of time together, now that you’ve found each other.”

Fenris took a deep breath and tried to smile, one corner of his mouth tilting upwards.

“Thank you, Hawke. Your help…you…it means more than you know.”

“You’re important to me, Fenris.”

He snorted softly. “I will never understand how. Everything I’ve done to you…I certainly don’t deserve to ask you for a single thing.”

“Don’t start talking like that. Not a word of it is true. You know what you are to me.”

“Yes. I do.”

They fell into silence, staring at each other, until finally Hawke moved closer, extending his hand to him, and Fenris took it. I would have to be enough.

Fenris stared at their hands for a moment, before finally he said, as if pushing the words out, “If I could be with you, Hawke, I would.”

“I know,” Hawke said. He lifted his hand, brushed his lips gently against his knuckles, then used it to haul Fenris to his feet. “Come on. Your treat is probably cold by now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is very long - a little over twice the usual length - but I don't want to split it, and there isn't a good place to, anyway. I'm sure we all know what's coming, but it's getting there that matters.


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris wanted to clean the mansion.

Well – that wasn’t entirely accurate. First of all, it was still in fairly passable shape (for a moldering, run-down, neglected old mansion) from the cleaning Donnic had given it just a week ago. But the news about his sister, and Hawke’s quick agreement that they could meet her, had filled the elf with a kind of nervous, jittery energy he didn’t quite know what else to do with.

For the first time he found himself bothered by the broken window shades, the holes in the walls, the broken glass on the floor, the stuffing protruding from the once-fine couches. If Varania should choose to stay with him, he would feel ashamed to bring her home to such a place.

Anxious anticipation over the meeting made his skin itch, and his lyrium bands twitched and burned slightly in response – a feeling he had grown used to during his life on the run but which was now an annoying distraction.

Hawke helped him air out a guest room (as much as they could, with the persistent rain) and haul in the most in-tact furniture they could find. They put fresh sheets on the beds and wood near the fireplace and they swept cobwebs from the ceiling.

“My sister Bethany had a song she would sing when she cleaned,” Hawke said. “About the birds and the spiders and…funny; I haven’t thought of it in years.”

“Please don’t tell me you intend to sing it.”

The company was good. Hawke’s presence was an anchor that kept Fenris’s mind from drifting too deeply into the maw of the anxiety he felt gnawing at him over the coming meeting. His memories were watery, thin. Memories he owed to that night with Hawke.

“Is there any part of me you have not touched?” Fenris reflected, filling a shelf in the guest room with books he had no way of knowing if his sister would even enjoy.

“ _Well,_ ” standing in the doorway, Hawke made certain Fenris caught him giving him a suggestive once-over. “Nope.”

It made Fenris laugh. Laughter was yet another thing he would not be capable of, if not for Hawke.

If Varania chose to come back with him – if she decided to remain in Kirkwall, as he hoped she would – he would see to it that she was well cared for. There should be no shortage of work for a skilled tailor, and he always had his share of the coin from their jobs that Hawke gave him – yes, Hawke again. _Always_ Hawke.

Cautiously, his nerves began to turn to hope. He found himself slowly confiding his plans to the big, shaggy, steadfast man working at his side.

“After a time, she will need somewhere of her own to live,” he said. “Somewhere legal. Somewhere that isn’t…”

“What about you, Fenris?”

He shook his head. “I would not risk it. I would not wish it should touch her, the next time they come looking for me.”

Hawke only nodded, and did not request further explanation. “We can get someone to keep an eye on her, too.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Hawke had a way, as always, of making him comfortable. They passed the hours in companionship, and Fenris felt nearly, _nearly_ at ease.

“We should probably go,” Hawke said at last, late in the afternoon. Outside, the rain still held steady. He offered a cloak to Fenris. “It’s a good time. Varric and Isabela should probably be there, too.”

Friends to watch their backs, in case something went wrong. Fenris took the cloak with a silent, grateful nod.

The mansion…still looked terrible. Hawke grinned as he caught Fenris looking over it with a scowl.

“Everything will be fine,” Hawke said. “One way or another.”

The storm prevented conversation as the two made their way from Hightown. Fenris tried to ignore it, but he felt his belly knot and tighten with nerves as they drew closer. He could almost wish he were a different man – one that could reach for Hawke. The strength and comfort of feeling one of those large, warm hands over his own would have been pleasant. He flexed his hand at the thought; the cold, sharp gauntlets were his reality. He could not forget that.

Hawke stopped them just outside the door to the Hanged Man.

“You’re ready?” he asked.

“Hawke, it’s pouring out here.”

“We’re already soaked,” the man pointed out. Even in the dim light, Fenris could see the solemnity that touched his half-grin. A dribble of rain found its way under the hood of Fenris’s cloak. He jerked back when Hawke reached to brush it away for him, and the mage let his hand drop without touching him. “We don’t go in until you’re sure you’re ready.”

“There is no point in putting this off,” Fenris snapped, more harshly than he intended. He didn’t give Hawke the chance to respond – of himself the chance to change his mind. He turned to open the door.

He made himself take his time, removing his cloak and shaking off the water, hanging it up. He spotted Isabela arm wrestling a man at the bar for coins, shamelessly distracting the fellow with her breasts as she did so. In another corner, Varric was lording over a dozen or so laborers telling a very, very overblown story about the time they cleared a nest of dragons in the Bone Pit. (Somehow, in the story, it had been just Varric and Hawke, and Varric’s chest hair had been twice as thick and fire-resistant to boot.) When the dwarf spotted them at the door, he lifted his tankard, saluting in greeting.

Fenris continued to scan the bar, his heartbeat picking up, Hawke a reassuring warmth at his back.

“Is that - ?” Hawke began, as a red haired elven woman at one of the tables rose and looked them over. Fenris felt his heart give a lurch when their eyes met. His tattered memories flashed more strongly than they had since that night with Hawke.

“It _is_ you,” Varania said, with little pleasure.

It wasn’t quite the reaction he’d been hoping for, but Fenris had not quite allowed himself to admit he _was_ hoping. Still, it was her. She was here.

“Varania?” Fenris found himself moving forward. He felt…excited. Eager. “I…” he hesitated. What to say to her, now that she was finally here? _I will take care of you_ seemed too open, too eager for a stranger. _I will give you a life_ seemed nearly as bad. “I remember you,” he settled for – for now. It alone felt deeply personal. His memories were rare enough to be considered precious. “We played in our master’s courtyard while mother worked. You called me…”

“Leto,” she finished for him, unsmiling, not returning his joy. “That’s your name.”

He shook his head, frowning at her disposition. Any happiness he could have felt by reacquiring his lost name was overshadowed completely by a sudden, deep feeling of dread.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris demanded, and that feeling made his voice far harsher than he meant for it to be. “Why are you so - ?”

Behind him, Hawke shifted, stepping to his side. His strong face was pulled into a grim expression, his amber eyes hard, flickering with darkness. He held his stave low at his side, his grip white-knuckled.

“It’s a trap.”

There was a moment, just a fraction of a sliver of time, where everything seemed frozen over; cold horror filling Fenris down to his bones, he looked desperately to his sister, who would not meet his eyes.

And then – that voice.

“Aah, my little _Fenris_ ,” the voice was like the jeweled scales of a venomous snake scraping a parched desert terrain. One foot, and then another, the magister descended from the Hanged Man’s upper level. A king presenting himself to his court, his smile was one of satisfaction and triumph.

Fenris should have moved. He should have lunged, closed the distance between them, and had the man’s heart gripped tight in his fist before the foul creature could draw another breath – but a lifetime of servitude instilled habits that were hard to break, and Fenris could not bring himself to move.

“Predictable as always,” Denarius taunted.

His voice – Fenris had not anticipated what that voice would do to him. That tone – how many times had the man humiliated him, taunted him, made him whine and beg and _scream_ like a damned animal? Fenris was younger, stronger – could rip Denarius to shreds – and yet his voice filled him with loathing, dread. He would never escape, never be free. He –

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania said. She sounded so far away, a whisper against the torment of the hurricane in his mind.

Fenris gritted his teeth and fought against every instinct that had been beaten into him over the course of his life. He would not drop his eyes. He would not cower, or scrape, or beg. _He would not drop his eyes!_

“You led him here,” he ground out at last.

Denarius chuckled, the sound like warm bile rolling over his skin. “Now, now, Fenris,” he scolded. “Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.”

The hurt lanced through him, sharp and fierce. The fragile secret he’d nursed like a fool. Sister, _family_ – it meant nothing. _You’re nothing. You’ll never be free._

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Denarius!” he snarled, the words bursting violently from his lips, forced out past the desire – _desire!_ – to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. “But I won’t let you kill me to get them!”

Denarius laughed. He saw no threat in his former property – as far as he was concerned, there was only victory from here. “Oh, how little you know, my pet,” he answered warmly, even fondly. He looked at Fenris as if he stood there bare, and laughed again when a low growl rose up in response. His gaze flickered to Hawke. “Ah, and this is your _new_ master, then? Champion of Kirkwall? _Impressive_.”

It was like a blow, the way Denarius looked at Hawke. Somehow Fenris had never considered what it would be like to have them in the same room together. It would have provided its own kind of devastation for Denarius to look at Hawke and know what the man meant to Fenris. Hawke was the one sacred, uncorrupted _constant_ in Fenris’s life. Hawke was an anchor, a rock, a shield.

But Denarius looked at Hawke as if he were his _equal_ , and that was somehow worse. Magister to Champion, he looked at Hawke as if he anticipated a peaceable business deal. Money would change hands, pleasantries extended. And Denarius would walk away with his property.

Because that was all he was, all that Denarius could see. Despite taking his freedom, despite killing every man sent against him, Fenris was yet not a man with a will and wants and needs of his own, but an object, a pet, a creature. He wanted him to know it. He wanted him reminded of his place.

Hawke moved suddenly, and the room became significantly colder as he placed himself between Fenris and the magister.

Hawke was all cold rage and blistering fury, his broad shoulders tense, those eyes that could be warm and sweet as honey now hard cold stone. Ice crystalized and cracked on the windows, and not a few bar patrons bolted for the door. Somewhere, Varric had Bianca loaded and aimed. Somewhere Isabela slid her knives from her back with a chill ring of metal.

“Fenris doesn’t belong to _anyone_!” Hawke snarled.

Denarius lifted a brow – in surprise? In amusement? “Do I detect a note of jealousy?” he asked, his gaze returning to Fenris, lips curling into a knowing, suggestive smile. “It’s not surprising. The lad is rather… _skilled_ , isn’t he?” the heavy weight of his gaze lingered knowingly at the bruises on Fenris’s neck, making them feel filthy, tainting the brightness of that memory of Hawke pressed so close.

_I’ll be damned if I let you push me away!_

His sword was in his hand before he had the knowledge of drawing it.

“Shut. Your. Mouth. Denarius!”

He chuckled darkly and shook his head. “The word you’re looking for,” he said, “Is _Master_.”

Everything happened at once, then; Fenris could contain his rage no longer. His old instincts, that old conditioning, snapped suddenly like a wire pulled too tight. He flung himself at Denarius only to find a barrier snapped too quickly in his way – though not, he was pleased to see, before Hawke got a blow in: an ice lance that pierced the magister’s shoulder, drawing deep, dark blood. Hawke must have moved even before Fenris.

In any case, there were others on which to slake his fury. Several of the men Varric had previously been entertaining drew weapons, and the man Isabela had been flirting with made a grab for her. Plants, or opportunistic thieves who saw a bar fight as their chance, it didn’t matter. Anyone who was innocent fled or hid in that first hot wash of blood.

Fenris carved his way through all who would stand against him, barely aware of more than the rage which pounded in his temples and the magister who stood safe within his vile barrier.

Denarius cast spells, but he was neither as young nor as strong as Hawke – struggling after only a few minutes whereas Hawke’s large, powerful arms continued to swing his stave, spells lashing, biting, with real force. The profane sizzle of magic in the air made his lyrium bands sings in response, burning his skin. Fenris kept an eye on Denarius, knowing his weakness. It was only a matter of time –

 _There_.

Fenris saw it – felt it – tasted it. As he cut down another Tevene, the magister’s barrier wobbled and fell. Denarius would have to resort to blood magic now – his own, since there was no convenient sacrifice waiting nearby – and the moment where he was forced to drop his barrier to gather power was the opportunity Fenris had been craving.

His lyrium flashed, burning with white-hot fury as he suddenly stepped toward the swordsman who had the misfortune of facing him. He snapped his hand into his chest and yanked his heart free as he had with so many other opponents, so many times in the past. He could not waste time now.

Little more than a ghost, there were none capable of stopping his rush to his former master’s side. Denarius knew he was coming, was struggling, hands shaking, as he smeared his hands with the blood from the shoulder wound.

The dark shapes of the demons he summoned began to form themselves across the room. Some, like gleeful children with new toys, chose the bodies of the fallen for their sport, and more than one corpse twitched fingers as it gathered the strength to rise once more.

Fenris had nearly reached Denarius. He stretched out his hand, wanting nothing so much as to feel his pulse against his hand, that hot, slick squish of his lifeblood oozing between his fingers. Their eyes met. Fenris smiled.

His hand struck an invisible wall, mere inches from the magister’s chest, and for one long, frozen moment the two stared at each other from closer than they’d been in nearly a decade.

Denarius was out of breath, sagging as he clutched at his shoulder, older than Fenris remembered. The panicked expression in his eyes shifted into smug triumph as he realized he was safe. Fenris had seen that expression far too many times for his liking, lorded over him during moments of complete and devastating humiliation, when his pride was shattered, spirits broken.

It made his blood boil now. Fenris spat and pushed violently away from the barrier.

Demons were more difficult to take down than mere men, and there were more of them. Their vile unholy stench filled the tavern, shadows hanging as if ready to strike.

Reflexively, Fenris looked first to Hawke, but found the mage holding his own – jaw set, powerful muscles working as he swung his stave. He showed no signs of weakening yet. A line of three demons were frozen, mid-grasp, a foot before him, and his attention was focused on the group around Isabela.

“A little help over here?” Varric called, ducking under the reaching grasp of a corpse as he reloaded Bianca. He laughed as Fenris neatly removed the thing’s head. “You and Hawke throw the worst parties.”

“Oh?” Fenris asked dryly, turning to meet a pair of corpses. “I was rather enjoying myself.”

The dwarf’s laughter followed him as his blade danced between the demons. No longer so pressed with keeping his own skin intact, Varric was free to cover Fenris, even as three more demons and two corpses rose up to replace what Fenris cut down.

Without warning, lightning arched between the monstrosities. Fenris looked up, briefly, and met the full intensity of Hawke’s gaze. He gave him a grin – a quick upward jerk of the corner of his mouth – but Hawke, gone hard and serious, did not return it. His spells came sharper, more powerful. Isabela darted between the demons, cutting, slashing. Bianca launched bolt after bolt.

And then the demons were gone, and there was nothing in the way between Fenris and his master.

Denarius backed away as he approached, and fumbled at his belt for a vial of lyrium. Even with his filthy blood magic, the old man was spent. The moment his barrier flickered out of existence, Varric fired a bolt that knocked the bottle from his hand. He fell back with a cry, bleeding, pathetic, and spent. Fenris could smell the stench of urine, sharp and foul, as he grabbed the trembling old man by the collar.

“You are no longer my master!” Fenris seethed, plunging his hand deep into the magister’s chest, gripping his heart in his palm as he had so often dreamed of doing. Denarius’s mouth formed silent, voiceless pleas.

The heart was weak, fluttering once against his palm, then growing still. It stopped beating before he had even pulled it out, and instead of the satisfaction Fenris had always expected to feel, there was nothing but rage.

 _This_ was the man who’d so filled his life with pain and fear that there could be no room for anything good? The man who had made such sport of breaking him, again and again and again?

In disgust, Fenris let his body fall. He stared at the heart until his vision blurred and his eyes stung, and then he threw it down, spat.

He turned away – and his eye fixed on Varania, crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped protectively around herself as she trembled in terror. His _rage_ fixed on Varania.

She let out a cry as he approached. “I – I had no choice, Leto!” she pled.

“Stop calling me that!” he snarled, and barely recognized his own voice.

“H-he was going to make me his apprentice,” she said. Tears streamed thick down a face so very like his own. “I would have been a magister!”

Her words filled him with bile. He thought of his peaceful afternoon with Hawke as they prepared a place for her. His foolish, childish hope of caring for her, having a place, a family. Magic. Magic again.

“You sold out your own brother to become a _magister_?” he snarled, grabbing her roughly, hauling her bodily to her feet.

“You have no idea what we went through! What I’ve had to do since mother died!” she was crying, trembling, but there was a defiant note to her voice. She would not piss herself like Denarius. At least there was that. “This was my _only_ chance!”

“And now you have no chance at all,” he said darkly, and wondered if he meant his words in part for himself. No chance to know one another, to hear of all the times memory had lost. No stories of a mother or a father or a home. Magic destroyed everything it touched. His rage was a blinding, terrible, hungry thing.

“ _Please!”_ Varania cried, struggling. “Don’t do this! Please!” she looked, desperately, behind him – yet surely Fenris was alone. “Tell him to stop!” she pled.

He snarled, lifting his hand, the lyrium bands glowing, white hot and violent even against the blood that already painted him.

“Wait,” someone said, and the single word shook Fenris down to his core. _Hawke_. He had forgotten Hawke. “Don’t kill her,” Hawke said.

Still, Fenris struggled. “Why not?” he demanded, his rage crashing against all other thought like the waves beating so relentlessly against the harbor in the storm. “She was ready to see _me_ killed. What is she to me, other than one more tool of the magisters?”

“This is your _family_ , Fenris,” Hawke said, still hard, still serious. Hawke, who had lost his father, his sister, his mother. Hawke, who had bloodied his strong farmboy hands just to keep his loved ones fed. Hawke, whose own brother had turned his back on him to join the Templars.

Fenris stared at the hand Hawke placed on his arm, lifted his gaze to stare into those eyes that always caught him so fully. Hawke was a mage, but unlike any mage – any _man_ – he’d ever met. Hawke loved him, despite everything he was. Even now.

With effort, he tore his eyes away, back to his sister. “ _Get out_ ,” he growled, forcing the words out, his hands clenched like claws. He still wanted nothing more than to rip her to shreds, even as she broke for the door.

Hawke squeezed his arm, and he shook it off with a glower, opening his mouth to –

“You said you didn’t ask for this, but that’s not true,” Varania had stopped once she was a safe distance from him, her back to the door, ready to flee, yet her expression was defiant. “You _wanted_ it,” she shot. “You _competed_ for it. When you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he demanded, her words like a knife twisting in his heart.

Her lip curled. “Freedom was no boon,” she spat, and there was hatred in his sister’s voice. “I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain.”

Fenris took a step forward as she fled, pushing open the door and disappearing into the night, into the storm.

Fenris could feel the eyes of his friends on him. He could feel _Hawke’s_ eye on him. Patient. Waiting. Watchful.

“I…thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging,” Fenris said, dragging his words out, feeling he owed them something. He ached, deep inside. “I was wrong. Magic has tainted that, too. There is nothing for me to reclaim.” He thought again of the room at the mansion, waiting for the sister who bore him no love. Why had he even allowed himself to hope? “I am alone,” he spat.

“ _I’m_ here, Fenris.”

Hawke’s words, spoken softly yet firmly, drew his eyes, and he found himself staring at him, aching. Hawke – Hawke had seen how Denarius looked at him, how he spoke to him. The knife twisted deeper. Fenris turned away, pacing, tearing his hands through his hair, heedless of the blood he smeared into the pale strands, until he could bear to face him again.

“I feel unclean,” he said. “Like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul.” He was all too aware of Isabela watching, of Varric pretending not to. Fenris felt sick, he felt dirty, and if Hawke kept looking at him like that, he’d – he’d break. He turned away once more. “And now this,” he murmured. “Let’s go. I need to get out of here.”


	9. Chapter 9

In the mansion’s once-grand entrance hall, Fenris stopped and turned to Hawke.

“I want a shower,” he stated, and let his sodden cloak fall carelessly to the ground. It was the first he had spoken since they’d left the Hanged Man, and his voice was the rough, dry scratch of gravel.

“I’ll be here when you get out,” Hawke said, and though Fenris had neither asked him to follow him home nor to stay with him, the elf nodded and relief flickered briefly through his eyes at his words. Fenris lifted his hands to the clasps on his chest piece, and as he turned and walked away he left a distracted trail of clothing in his wake.

Varric and Isabela – Isabela, in particular – had put up some resistance to being asked to stay behind, but Hawke had finally convinced them to let him walk Fenris home alone. Night had fallen during the skirmish and the storm yet raged – howling winds, torrents of rain. Though the downpour would have prevented conversation anyway, Fenris’s silence had been noticeable. He’d moved like a ghost, as if unaware of anything around him – including Hawke. When the wind had blown his cloak open and pushed back his hood, he hadn’t seemed to notice.

So his words, his brief acknowledgement of Hawke’s presence, were more than a small relief to the mage, who worried, nonetheless, as he watched his slow, tired walk up the stairs, weapons and armor left littered behind him like trash.

Hot, running water was one of the few luxuries of a Hightown mansion to have survived the years of neglect and Fenris’s black moods. It wasn’t until Hawke heard the water running that he could prompt himself into motion.

He got a fire going in Fenris’s room and laid out all of his armor and clothing – and his own cloak and boots – out to dry. He replaced the sheets on the bed with fresh ones and found something comfortable for him to wear when he got out.

Hawke had to keep busy. Every time he paused for so much as a moment, he saw again the proprietary, hungry way that piece of shit magister had looked at Fenris, heard again the disgusting _knowing_ in his voice: _the lad is quite talented, isn’t he?_

And he knew worse would be tormenting Fenris right now.

Hawke used a subtle press of magic to warm the sheets and Fenris’s clothing, then returned downstairs to make tea and a snack he knew would go untouched. He kept thinking, again and again, of those stolen kisses. Grabbing Fenris, losing control, when Fenris had made clear three years ago that he could not handle a physical relationship. Hawke had done it anyway, and Fenris –

Hawke went to the wine cellar and picked out bottle after bottle after bottle to bring upstairs. He’d apologized for that, and Fenris had accepted his apology. This wasn’t about Hawke. Denarius had made his blood boil, but they were nothing alike. And Fenris would need him now – without the baggage of a useless guilt trip.

Hawke sat. He got up again and paced. He returned upstairs and re-warmed the sheets.

When an hour had passed and the water was still running, Hawke knocked on the bathroom door.

“Fenris?” he called, but received no answer. He knocked again. “Fenris, if you don’t answer me, I’m coming in.” He waited. Counted to twenty. Counted again.

Hawke went in.

Fenris stood under the spray, water long since gone cold. He was shivering, head bowed, a rough sponge held limply in his hand. His skin was red and raw from scrubbing, and Hawke could see that he’d clawed himself – along his arms, his thighs – as if trying to tear the lyrium out himself. He’d drawn blood in more than once place, and the water ran slightly pink.

He didn’t react when Hawke cursed and reached past him to fumble with the knobs to turn the water off, and he didn’t answer when Hawke called his name, didn’t so much as look at him when he closed his hands around his shoulders and gave him a shake.

But he jerked, violently, his eyes flashing in utter fury, when Hawke tried to lay a mild healing spell over him. Fenris shoved him hard into the wall, snarling, unseeing, and punched Hawke once, twice, in the face. He drew his fist back again, lyrium stirring along his skin. Hawke’s hand scrambled and found a towel, and he wrapped Fenris in it, trapping his arms as they struggled and holding on to him as hard as he could.

“ _Fenris!”_ he said, bowing his head over him as he fought and hissed and kicked and spat. “Fenris, it’s me! It’s me. I’m here.”

He kept chanting it, like a prayer, holding him tight against him, cheek pressed to the wet crown of his head even as his thrashing led to bruised ribs and a split lip and what was, very likely, a broken nose. Hawke took it all and refused to loosen his hold.

Fenris cried out – screamed in frustration, in fury, in anguish, and his struggles slowly became great, body-wracking sobs, and still Hawke held tight.

“I’m here, Fenris,” he chanted. A whisper. A prayer.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he found himself on the shower floor, an exhausted Fenris asleep against his chest. His body protested when he moved; everything hurt.

Fenris was out. He didn’t stir when Hawke carried him to his room, or even when he dressed him and tucked him into bed. The room was nicely warm by this point, and by the light of the fire Hawke gave himself a moment to watch him. His face was a little red, his brows drawn down into a deep frown line, but even still, Hawke thought he saw something less guarded there than there had once been.

He brushed damp white strands of hair from the elf’s face, and resisted the urge to climb in beside him.

“I’m here, Fenris,” he said, one last time. He received no response.

Hawke left the door open and took himself to the guest bedroom he and Fenris had prepared just that morning, stretching himself out along the bed meant for Varania. It was too small for him, and his feet hung over the end, but he was sleep almost immediately, and had no dreams.

“Get up.”

A foot planted firmly against the footboard sent the bed scraping several inches to the left and woke Hawke almost immediately. He sat bolt upright, momentarily forgetting where he was as he peered around the unfamiliar room. The sun was shining brightly outside.

Fenris scowled when he met his eyes, then moved to sit beside him on the bed, thrusting one of the two mugs he carried at him. He had dressed in his armor and looked no different than he ever did.

“You look like shit,” Fenris informed him. Their knees were touching.

“Who do you think did this to me?” Hawke asked.

The elf smirked, not looking at him, and raised his mug for a drink. Hawke did the same.

And nearly spit it back out.

“Is that – _whiskey_?”

“No,” Fenris murmured. “There’s coffee in there, too.”

Hawke grunted and took another sip – more carefully this time.

Fenris wouldn’t look at him. “Why are you here, Hawke?”

“Where else would I be?”

The elf grunted and nodded, accepting it. “Last night,” he said. Hesitated. “I don’t want to talk about last night.”

“Fair enough,” Hawke agreed.

Fenris nodded, and looked relieved. “Breakfast?” he offered.

“You can cook?”

“We shall see.”

They had slightly runny eggs on very burnt toast and before they had finished the meal, Merrill dropped by, far too full of energy and cheer, to offer condolences and drop off flowers. Fenris wasn’t quite done being annoyed with this when Anders showed up – only to pace, almost begrudgingly heal Hawke (who never, it seemed, expended the effort to heal _himself_ , though Maker forbid any of his friends get so much as a paper cut), and leave just as quickly as he’d arrived.

Donnic and Aveline, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela – they all found excuse to stop by over the course of the day to reach out to Fenris, who now seemed completely unphased by last night’s events. Hawke would catch him, from time to time, with a thoughtful, dark expression on his face, but he generally hid it as well as he ever did.

“You know, you could go anywhere you want now,” Isabela said. She had been there for about an hour, trying her damndest to either get Fenris to cheer up or break down, Hawke wasn’t sure which. She wasn’t the first to try to point out how open the elf’s options now were, now that he was finally well and truly free, though her patience finally seemed to be nearing its end.

Fenris glanced only briefly at Hawke. “I’m aware of that,” he said after a moment.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, putting down her drink and rising, an idea taking hold with enthusiasm. “You could become a _raider_! You could join my crew!”

“The crew of your nonexistent ship?” he lifted a brow.

The reminder clearly stung, and Isabela’s mood had been iffy after the third time Fenris had rebuffed her attempts to discuss the altercation with Denarius. His mention of her lack of a ship was, apparently, the final straw.

“Well,” she said. “With that attitude, you’re never going anywhere, are you?”

She went for the door. Perhaps she expected to be called back. Fenris allowed her to leave in peace, nursing his own drink, and he and Hawke remained together in silence for a long while, even after they heard the front door close behind her.

They were in one of the smaller drawing rooms, where a good fireplace and passably comfortable seating had proven a fair enough lure for hosting the unprecedented number of guests Fenris had seen that afternoon.

“She doesn’t understand,” Fenris was the first to break the silence. Hawke glanced at him and lifted a brow, but remained silence, waiting. Fenris glanced down and flexed his hands, examining them with a frown. “Yes,” he said softly. “I am free. Denarius is dead. Yet…it doesn’t feel as it should.”

Hawke exhaled slowly and shifted forward in his chair a little, his eyes on the elf. He hadn’t expected him to volunteer anything more about it. At least, not so soon.

“You thought killing him would solve everything,” he supplied gently, “But it doesn’t.”

Fenris nodded, looking up at last, surprise flickering across his face. “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed. The gaze he fixed on Hawke was thoughtful. “I thought…if I did not need to run and fight to stay alive, I might finally be able to live as a free man does,” he said, speaking slowly, struggling as he considered how to express exactly what it was he was feeling. “But…how is that? My sister is gone, and I have nothing now. Not even an enemy.”

Fenris slunk back in his chair with a soft sigh, shoving his hands through his hair then pulling them down again, examining his exposed palms. His expression darkened as he traced along the lines of one of his marks with a metal-tipped finger. Hawke itched to go to him, but disrespecting his boundaries yet again was surely the fastest way to make him clam up again, and Fenris _needed_ to talk. At his own pace.

“Maybe it just means you have nothing holding you back now,” Hawke hazarded at last, after several minutes of silence.

Fenris’s eyes rolled slowly up to him again, and he watched him for a long moment. “Hn,” he grunted at last. “An interesting thought. It’s just difficult to overlook the stain magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter…it’s not without cause.” He sighed and shook his head, his eyes moving over Hawke with – regret? When those eyes met Hawke’s gaze, something in them settled, some unknown question locking into place. “Perhaps it _is_ time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads.” Again, he hesitated, watching him. Again that slow, lingering glance, as if memorizing him. “Do you?” he finally asked, with clear effort.

“Wherever it leads, I hope we stay together,” Hawke answered honestly, holding his gaze.

Fenris exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath, and something in his expression cleared. Hawke watched his shoulders relax as a small, almost shy smile flickered slowly across his lips. “That…is my hope, as well,” he admitted. Hawke returned the smile. It took everything in him not to reach for him, and they lapsed into mutual silence once more, each watching the other and making no secret of it.

Fenris was the first to look away, shifting, hesitating. The smile that briefly crossed his lips was rueful.

“We’ve, ah…never discussed what happened between us…three years ago,” Fenris began awkwardly.

Hawke couldn’t stop half a laugh. “You didn’t want to talk about it.”

Fenris echoed that laugh with a small one of his own – humorless and self-effacing. “I felt like a fool,” he admitted. “I thought it would be easier if you hated me. I deserved no less.” Fenris held up his hand as Hawke made to object, and the mage fell silent again. “It isn’t better,” Fenris said. “That night…” he paused again.

This time Hawke waited.

“I remember your touch as if it were yesterday,” Fenris admitted at last. It took obvious effort, but he made himself meet Hawke’s eyes. “I should have asked for your forgiveness long ago. I…hope you can forgive me now.”

Hawke exhaled slowly, staring at him, letting his eyes move over his face, noting the openness, the vulnerability, the fragile hope there. Almost unable to believe what he was hearing, Hawke wanted nothing more than to take Fenris into his arms. He wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to offer every kind of comfort he had not been able to give him last night.

Instead he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“I need to understand why you left, Fenris,” he said, as gently as he could, half afraid of ruining the only chance he was likely to get. This had to be right – for both of them. Hawke couldn’t accept what he was offering if it wasn’t. If Fenris was merely speaking out of grief, or fear, or – or –

Fenris looked away again, pushing a hand through his hair, frowning, even as each second that passed thrummed like a small eternity in Hawke’s chest.

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times,” Fenris said at last. “The pain – the memories it brought up – it was too much. I – I was a coward,” he paused, took a breath, then met Hawke’s eyes once more. His gaze was pleading. Afraid, after all these years, all the hurt, that it would not be enough. “If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

“What would you have said?” Hawke asked.

Fenris pushed himself out of his seat and crossed to him, leaning over him, his hands planted on the chair’s armrests. “ _Nothing_ could be worse than the thought of living without you,” he confessed, and some of the usual fierceness touched his voice, some of the usual fire lit his eyes.

Hawke exhaled and shook his head. “I understand,” he said. “I always understood.”

Fenris smiled – somehow fierce and relieved and heartbreakingly _happy_ , all at once.

“If there _is_ a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side,” the elf swore. He opened his mouth to say more, but Hawke could not bear it another moment. He pushed forward, his mouth finding Fenris’s as he rose, his arms sliding around him.

It started out as a gentle kiss – deep, slow, not the fevered forceful taking of their encounter in the kitchen earlier that week. He tasted of whiskey and coffee, of lyrium and _home_. If Fenris had wanted to use his freedom to leave, Hawke would have been lost. This, he knew, was where he belonged.

Fenris pulled away suddenly, grunting in frustration. “Too many clothes,” he said, lifting his hands to the clasps on his armor. “Why the _hell_ did I put this on?”

Hawke laughed, earning himself a halfhearted glare even as he reached to help him. The chest plate fell to the floor with a clang, and Hawke moved in closer still.

“It’s okay if you need to go slowly,” Hawke said, pressing kisses to Fenris’s palms as he removed his gauntlets, remembering far too well the way Denarius had looked at the elf.

Fenris drew back again to look at him. “Slower than three years?” he demanded flatly.

Hawke chuckled softly and leaned in again, nuzzling at a pointed ear, sliding his hands up his arms. “I mean if you need to build up to it this time.”

Fenris snorted and peeled off his shirt, letting it drop. As Hawke reached for him again, the elf shoved him, hard, back into his chair.

“Fuck that,” Fenris growled, planting a knee between his legs, straddling his thigh as he leaned down to kiss him, hard.

 


	10. Epilogue

Kirkwall was bustling, its citizens happy for the reprieve of sunshine after the storm that had battered them for so long. The ground had begun to dry, damp clothing hung out of every open window, and strangers greeted one another as they passed. There were strange rumors in the air – of murdered Tevinter magisters found in the tavern, of dragons in the Bone Pit, and of growing violence among the Templars. Anders had begun to wear black.

It was a good day to get out of the city and head up Sundermount.

“You’re in love!” Merrill laughed and teased, avoiding a (possibly near-fatal) grab from Fenris, dancing away, splashing through puddles, only to round on her fellow elf again. “You keep looking at Hawke with sad puppy eyes every time his back is turned!”

There was no missing the broad smile that spread across Hawke’s face, even as Fenris snarled, “ _There are no puppy eyes!_ ”

There may or may not have been a twinge of pink on his face.

“It’s all right, you know,” Merrill said brightly, walking backwards so she could watch them both. “Even you can be happy once in a while – it won’t kill you.” She erupted into giggles again at the murderous look he gave her, and the way the back of Hawke’s hand casually bumped into Fenris’s as they walked. “Your face might crack if you smile, though, so best be careful!”

Fenris’s growl was so loud it sent a little old lady darting across the street, even as Hawke laughed. Their hands accidentally bumped once again, and though Fenris shot threats and glowers Merrill’s way, he didn’t for a moment waver from Hawke’s side.

“Better let him alone,” Hawke advised as a twinkling in Merrill’s eyes broadcasted the fact that she had noticed – that she was willing to test her luck.

In the resulting silence that followed, it was Varric’s voice that rang out.

“Oh, I don’t know, Bianca,” the dwarf drawled slowly, conversationally. “I think they’re _both_ walking funny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (obviously) just a very short epilogue to hopefully bring things round full circle.
> 
> I really had a blast writing this, and will likely do more like this - fleshing out my headcanons - as the ideas occur to me (if anyone is interested in reading them, that is!) I regret that it was necessary to resort to so much game dialogue; I hope it wasn't too disruptive.
> 
> I have so much love and appreciation for everyone who left kudos, and even moreso for those who commented. The encouragement means more than you can know.

**Author's Note:**

> http://kaerwrites.tumblr.com/


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